Fractured Memories: Subject 17

by CaseyBarson12

Summary:

As an NCIS agent and a former foster child, G. Callen had always carried a heavy burden of untold stories, but recently, his past seemed to claw its way back with an intensity he just couldn't ignore. Some memories are forgotten for a reason. Nate couldn't have been more right. Still, he had needed to know. He couldn't regret that. Didn’t make it easy, though.

Chapter 1: Subject Seventeen

Grisha ‘G’ Callen lay motionless in his bed, drenched in a cold sweat. The darkness of the room enveloped him, amplifying the vividness of the memories that invaded his mind. As an NCIS agent and a former foster child, Callen had always carried a heavy burden of untold stories, but recently, his past seemed to claw it's way back with an intensity he just couldn't ignore. Some memories are forgotten for a reason. Nate couldn't have been more right. Still, he had needed to know. He couldn't regret that. Didn’t make it easy, though.

A mere week earlier, he had elected to try hypnotherapy with his psychologist, Nate Getz. He’d hoped it would alleviate the persistent flashes of memories that had begun to resurface from his time in the C.I.A's Drona Project. He had entered the program at the tender age of eight, where he’d then been known only as Subject Seventeen, and attended it for the majority of his childhood. Unfortunately.

Initially, the recollections were fairly innocuous, tense fragments of puzzles and memory games. Yet, they’d begun taking a sinister turn in the last few days. Callen vividly remembered standing in the middle of a stark room, surrounded by the other subjects who were hitting him with blunt objects for failing some task. The memory of their blows and their teacher's comments lingered, an indelible mark on his psyche.

He grunted as he got knocked down onto the classroom floor. Callen quickly tried to scramble to his feet.

"Get up. Remember… don't feel, don't cry. You must learn to live with pain so you can fight through it." The man's tone became more serious still. "Get up."

He forced himself to his feet and his teacher almost smiled. "Good. Again."

He got knocked down once more as Subject Nine got a rather good blow in and let out a small whimper from the pain. He'd tried to not make a sound but it hurt. Everything was hurting at the moment.

"Get up, Seventeen!" the man demanded yet again. The teacher never liked it if Callen took too long to follow orders. "Now."

Tonight, however, a new memory emerged, more haunting than the previous ones. Callen found himself transported back to an Interrogation class, his body enduring searing pain, his teacher callously reminding him that pain was merely a state of mind and not to cry. Feelings cause pain. The intensity of the recollection shook him to the core, leaving him disoriented and disquieted in the safety of his own residence.

Slowly, Callen's senses reoriented to the present. He glanced at the figure of his girlfriend, Anna, lying peacefully beside him. She had grown up in a similar program back in Russia, but according to her, it had been far less violent if not less strict. Callen couldn't help but compare his own struggles to hers, wondering if he was simply too broken to provide Anna with the life she deserved. Despite his love for her, fear gnawed at the edges of his heart, threatening to overshadow their relationship. She wants the whole American dream and I don't know that I can give her the normal life she's looking for.

Thoughts of Hetty, his former mentor and confidante, intruded upon Callen's troubled mind as well. He wondered where she was and if she was safe. Anger welled within him as well, not only at her sudden departure but also at the way she had left him feeling used and abandoned. There had been no explanations, no conversations to bridge the gap that had grown between them.

Sleep never being his strong suit, Callen decided to get out of bed, careful not to disturb Anna. It was only five o'clock in the morning, and he had a few hours before he needed to get ready for work. At least one of them should get some rest; he knew he hadn't been the easiest person to deal with lately.

When a much more reasonable hour finally arrived, Callen quietly moved through the familiar morning routine, his footsteps barely audible on the hardwood floor. He brewed a strong pot of coffee, the aroma filling the air, and grabbed a couple of bagels from the cupboard. The small act of preparing breakfast for Anna and himself offered a semblance of normalcy, a fleeting respite from the turbulent thoughts that were threatening to consume him.

Sitting at the kitchen table, he and Anna exchanged soft glances, an unspoken understanding threading through the silence. They had been through so much together, and Anna's presence was a beacon of unwavering support. As they sipped their coffee and nibbled on their bagels, the weight of unspoken worries hung heavy in the air. Callen struggled to find the right words to express his inner turmoil, his fear of his own fractured existence. But for now, the quiet breakfast offered a brief moment of solace before the world demanded their attention.

Reluctantly, Callen rose from the table, his mind already consumed by the upcoming workday. Anna's eyes followed him, filled with concern, but she knew better than to press him for answers. She had her own demons, her own scars from a similar past, and she knew not to push him, understood he couldn't handle it right then.

At the office, Callen joined his team in their bullpen. Sam, his long-time partner, and the rest of the team members didn't miss the fact that he was even more reserved than usual. Sam had exchanged a knowing look with Kensi, their silent communication echoing their shared concern for their friend. The team had weathered countless storms together, but Callen's increasingly distant demeanour left them unsettled. He knew he was worrying them but he couldn't really help it either.

The hum of their conversations and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards filled the bullpen, but Callen struggled to focus on the mundane tasks at hand. His thoughts kept drifting back to the haunting memories that continued to forcing themselves to the front of his mind. 

The sudden appearance of a dead Marine case on their radar was a jarring reminder that their duty called, demanding their attention and swift action.

The team gathered around the plasma, dissecting the scant details they had regarding the case. Callen fought to centre his focus, attempting to anchor himself in the present. As Fatima and Roundtree relayed their preliminary findings from up in Ops, Callen's mind wavered between the troubling fragments of his past and the grim reality of the investigation before him.

Sam, ever perceptive, glanced over at Callen, subtle concern etched on his face. Without saying a word, Sam placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, a silent message of support. Callen appreciated the gesture, grateful for the unwavering camaraderie that at times was the only thing keeping him sane.

As they left the office, Callen pushed himself forward, burying the fragments of his own turmoil deep within, determined to give his all to the case at hand and not put his partner at any unnecessary risk.

As they arrived at the crime scene, Callen's usually laser-like focus sharpened, honing in on the meticulous examination of every detail. The weight of responsibility grounded him, offering a temporary respite from the storm raging within his mind. The body of the fallen Marine became the centre of his universe, a focal point that allowed him to momentarily distance himself from the ghosts that were haunting him.

Yet, beneath the surface, his team members sensed the lingering turmoil, the inner battle that threatened to consume him from within. They knew that this case was more than just another assignment for him — it was a battleground where he fought against his own demons, searching for some semblance of peace.

And so, as they delved deeper into the investigation, the weight of the case loomed over them. Sam, always the intuitive one, couldn't help but notice the constant struggle etched on his partner's face. As they took a momentary break from their work, Sam approached Callen, a calm expression on his face.

Sam leaned against the nearby wall, his tone now filled with genuine concern. "Real talk, can I ask you a question?"

"No," he fired back without missing a beat. I don't want to get into this right now.

His partner eyed him with slight exasperation. "G."

Callen eyed the Navy SEAL. This wasn't the first time they've had this conversation. "Last time I checked, Sam, you're my partner. Not my mother."

His partner's smile faded slightly, his voice taking on a more sombre tone. "Well, you could use one. Have you thought about talking to Anna?"

"About what?" he asked. Maybe the big guy won't push it right now. I really don't want to talk about this.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I think you're keeping Anna in the dark about what's been going on with you and that she'll understand." The Navy SEAL shot him a pointed look. "But you have to give her a chance."

He let out a small sigh. It's not that simple. "Sam."

"Talk to her," Sam replied, the former Navy SEAL’s tone leaving no room for argument.

His eyebrows furrowed as he considered what Sam had said. "I don't know, Sam. She doesn't need my problems put on her. She's been through enough already."

Sam shook his head, his gaze steady and determined. "G, relationships are about sharing the good and the bad. Anna loves you, and she'll want to be there for you. Trust me, she's stronger than you think."

As they both turned their attention back to their work, the case still demanding their attention, Callen privately considered Sam's suggestion. Would it really help?

Chapter 2: Genesis

Callen dragged himself through the front door of his apartment, exhausted after yet another long day at the Office of Special Projects. His body ached from sitting down so much during court and the drive to and from San Diego and his mind yearned for a moment of respite from everything that had been going on lately. The case he had to give testimony on earlier was the least of his issues, although unpleasant.

The apartment was small, lacking in the warmth and personal touch that often made a house feel like a home, but it did the trick. In any case, he and Anna were moving out the following day, so they weren't going to be there long.

Walking in, his gaze shifted to the fridge, his tired eyes settling on the assortment of items resting on its shelves that Anna had bought. He reached inside and grabbed a cold beer, relishing in the momentary escape that it promised. With the beverage in hand, Callen moved towards the chair, sinking into its cushion with a heavy sigh.

He cracked open the beer, savouring the hiss of carbonation as it filled the air. The cool liquid provided a soothing respite for his parched throat. As he took a long, slow sip, he allowed his thoughts to drift away from what felt to be drowning him.

Resting the bottle on his knee for a moment, Callen shifted his attention to the small table next to the chair. A film reel lay there, waiting patiently for his attention. So, he sat in his dimly lit apartment, the flickering light from the projector casting an eerie glow on his face.

The audio from the reel played softly in the background, the Russian voices echoing through the room. One sounded vaguely familiar although he really couldn't place it or explain why. Callen's eyes were, however, fixed on the grainy footage, the scenes of violence unfolding before him.

"Vy gotovy? Nachinat'." The stern voice echoed through the room as if Callen himself was transported straight back to the oppressive atmosphere of his alma mater. Back to his time at Drona. (Are you ready? Begin.)

On the screen, Katya's classmates encircled her, holding sticks tightly in their hands. The tension in the room mounted as Callen anticipated the unfolding cruelty. With a sharp intake of breath, he watched as the sticks descended upon Katya's vulnerable form, striking her with calculated force. He'd watched the reel before but it wasn't any less brutal than the first time.

The impact resonated through the room, a grimace crossing Callen's face. He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. It was hard to control. We were just kids.

"Vstavay. Yeshche raz!" the man's voice commanded, lacking any hint of compassion or remorse for what he was doing. (Get up. Again!)

Callen's gaze never wavered from the screen, his eyes fixed on Katya's battered figure. He watched as she struggled to summon her strength, her face etched with pain and determination. Her resilience resonated with something deep within Callen, and he almost felt bad for her. Almost. She'd done and was doing horrible things. But, it was hard to ignore the parallels between the violence inflicted upon Katya in the footage and the hardships he and she had endured in their similar upbringings. But she'd also become a monster and did some unforgivable things. Am I any better?

"Vstavay. Bol' eto vsego lish' sostoyaniye dushi. Vy dolzhny nauchit'sya zhit' s ney, chtoby borot'sya s ney. Vstavay!" the teacher's words echoed in his mind. The man's callousness left a rather bitter taste in Callen's mouth. (Get up. Pain is merely a state of mind. You must learn to live with it so you can fight through it. Get up!)

Against all odds, Katya summoned her remaining strength, her body trembling as she fought against the agony coursing through her.

"Molodéts. Yeshche raz!" the teacher's cold voice pierced the air, and the relentless beating resumed. None of the kids were willing to disobey. (Good. Again!)

As the scene played out, Callen found himself pulled further and further into the past. The beatings depicted on the reel echoed the pain Callen himself had experienced during his tumultuous childhood. The scars of a life filled with uncertainty, abuse, and loss resurfaced in his mind.

The sound of the front door opening brought Callen back to the present slightly, and he realized Anna had returned from her dinner with her father, Arkady. But he didn't speak, his gaze still fixed on the screen. The images before him mirrored the pain he had endured in his own life — the physical and emotional torment he had witnessed and experienced. He was beginning to understand just why his mind had blocked out the memories. But I needed to know. Still do.

"You okay?" Anna asked. He knew her well enough to spot the slight concern etched on her face. He knew she thought he was watching the reel too much and had that seek look every other time as well.

"Yeah," he said. His voice was gruff and gave him away though. "I'm fine." He sat up a bit straighter, taking a sip of his beer. "Looking for clues but not finding anything."

The blonde gave a little hum, clearly aware that there was more to it. He hadn't really discussed the recovered memories with her although she knew that he'd been a Drona subject and one or two other small details. "Is any of this about Drona?"

He gave a small sigh. Of course, she knows. "Maybe. A little." Callen gave a small tilt of the head. "So, how was dinner with Arkady?"

"Good," she said. "Although, Arkady somehow left the restaurant with a date."

He gave a little snort. "And that surprises you?"

"That women still go for him?" she fired back without missing a beat. "Yes." She made a vague gesture with her right hand. "But believe me, I know what to expect from the big oaf." She arched a brow as she continued to speak. "On neispravim." (He's incorrigible.)

He chuckled softly at the comment. "Pravda." (True.)

After chatting for a few more minutes, the pair decided to get to work packing. They didn't have a whole lot of time to get it done after all.

He gave her a teasing look. "Most of it's yours."

"That may be," she quipped, "but you're helping."

They got a fair amount of it done before they opted to take a break. Rather, Anna had noted the time and felt like having a hot cup of tea.

They headed to the kitchen and Anna filled the kettle with water, placing it on the stove to heat up. As they waited for it to boil, Anna rummaged through the cupboard and selected her favourite tea blend. The familiar scent of chamomile and lavender filled the air as she poured hot water into two mugs, steeping the tea bags for a couple of minutes.

She finally handed him a mug, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and into his hands.

He gave her a small smile. "Spasibo." (Thanks.)

She gave him a curt nod, smiling. There was something under the surface he couldn't quite read, though. "Pozhaluysta." (You're welcome.)

Carrying the mugs carefully, the pair made their way over to the small sitting area. They sat together in comfortable silence, appreciating the simple act of sharing a hot beverage and the sense of calm it brought.

Tea was only just barely Callen's thing but this particular evening there was something rather comforting about sipping on the warm drink. Anna ended up getting a call from her friend of sorts shortly after they finished their tea, so he sat back down and played the Noble Maiden reel again while the two ladies prattled on.

Eventually, he fell asleep, finding himself lost in another memory. He was trying to do a puzzle and wasn't doing it quickly enough.

"Finish the job." Those words were replying in his head when he jolted awake, it taking him a moment to realize where he was.

"Hey," Anna said softly, "you fell asleep." She turned back around to pick something up. "Come on. It's getting late. We need to finish up packing."

He indicated the reel with her right hand. "You sure you don't recognize the voice?"

"No," she replied. "He's not Russian, though. But the girl I'm pretty sure is Katya." I thought the same thing. "They never did anything like that when I was at the Institute of Noble Maidens. I almost feel sorry for her."

He shot his girlfriend a rather incredulous look.

"Almost," Anna reiterated. "Did you figure out what 'Pembroke' means?" As she spoke, the blonde held up the large film canister with 'Пембрук' penned in Cyrillic across it that had belonged to Katya.

"Well, it's either a fort in Malta, a college in Oxford or a breed of Welsh corgi." He was mostly kidding. "Or it's the man who's on this film." He gave a small sigh. "Either way, Katya's gone to great lengths to keep me from finding out."

"Okay," she replied before deciding to change the subject. "Well, now we need to start packing 'cause we have movers coming tomorrow."

"One more time," he said as he started to replay the reel. He needed to sort this out. "One more time."

If he had noticed the look of concern that crossed Anna's face, he may have made a different choice but then he'd felt like he was on shaky ground for days.

Eventually, however, he did pull himself off the couch and give her a hand.

As they packed up the last of the items, a feeling of accomplishment washed over them. The apartment was nearly empty, the signs of their life together neatly boxed up and ready for the next chapter.

If he noticed the sea of emotions on Anna's face, just below the surface, well Callen wasn't about to admit it. Not yet anyway. It'll be fine.

Chapter 3: Definitions

The dimly lit room held a haunting ambiance, shadows flickering on the cold, brick walls. Waking up for the second time that night, Callen found himself submerged in the depths of his past once again. The remnants of his time in the C.I.A's Drona Project resurfaced, tugging at the edges of his consciousness like fragmented whispers leaving him in a slightly disorienting haze.

Callen's mind had been thrust into a vivid recollection. In this particular memory, he found himself standing in the sterile confines of one of the Drona classrooms.

The scent of a strong cologne mingled with tension as a timer clicked ominously in the background. His younger self, vulnerable and eager to prove himself, scrambled to complete a memory game as quickly as possible. His fingers tapped against the table, sweat beading on his forehead as he wrestled with the challenge before him. Yet, despite his fervent efforts, the seconds slipped away like sand through his grasp.

A sharp crack sliced through the air, reverberating with a mix of authority and cruelty. Callen winced, feeling the sting radiating from his hand as his teacher struck it with a wooden stick. His instinctive reaction was to cradle the sore hand, the pain pulsating through his veins, threatening to consume him. Yet, he refused to let the tears spill forth, gritting his teeth against the ache.

"Pain is just a state of mind, Seventeen." The teacher's voice was cutting through the room, cold and detached. "Finish the job." The man's eyes narrowed. "Now."

The man's words reverberated in his ears, mingling with the memories of his past. The weight of expectations bore down on Callen's shoulders, fuelling his determination. With a resolute exhale, the nine-year-old banished the pain to the recesses of his mind, focusing his attention on the task at hand.

His fingers danced across the surface, tracing patterns and sequences with newfound speed. The memory game became a battleground of wills, the timer ticking relentlessly, but Callen refused to succumb. Piece by piece, he pieced together the fragmented puzzle, channelling his frustration into a tenacious pursuit of victory. He needed to do this.

As the last second dwindled away, a triumphant smile tugged at the corner of Callen's lips. The teacher seemed pleased as well. He had succeeded; he had conquered the challenge. The sense of accomplishment surged through his veins, overshadowing the residual ache in his right hand.

It was apparently 0400 according to his cell phone, so Callen tried to push the memory out of his mind and fall back asleep.

His girlfriend was across the room chatting away quietly in Russian on the phone when Callen walked back in from loading several boxes into the moving van they'd rented. By now, the time read 1100 and most of the apartment was empty, with only a few boxes remaining. "Da. Ladno, poka. Poka." (Yeah. Okay, bye. Bye.)

"Who's that?" he asked. He figured it was her father but it was just as likely to be any number of people from back home in Russia if he was honest.

"Arkady," she replied easily.

"Yeah?" he inquired, turning to grab another box of their stuff and put it on the trolly. "Everything good?"

"I've decided to stay at his place for a little while," she stated bluntly.

It felt like he'd just been punched in the gut. He turned and took a few steps toward her. "What are you talking about?" This can't be happening. "We-we just signed the papers for the new place in the Marina."

Anna just looked at him, not saying anything.

"Are you breaking up with me?" he asked. Please don't do this.

She immediately shook her head. "No."

"You sure?" he asked. It really sounds like you are.

"No, Callen." Her tone was softer as she walked towards him. "I love you. But the last few months, they've been..."

He jumped in to try and salvage things. "Hard, yeah, I get it, but... Katya hasn't called in weeks. Not since I got that film reel."

A sea of emotions crossed Anna's face as that particular item was brought up. "Yeah, that film reel. Ever since you found it, you've been obsessed."

"Because I think it may put a stop to all this," Callen desperately tried to explain. "I just need to find out why it's so important to her. You of all people have to understand this."

"I know," she replied. "I know, look, and I do. I'm just tired of letting Katya define our relationship. I think we should take a step back, just for a little while."

Callen's cell phone vibrated. This couldn't possibly be worse timing.

Anna eyed the phone and then him. "It's okay, go. We'll talk more in the evening."

"Okay." Hoping Anna actually meant that, he answered the work call. "Admiral."

Callen got to work and started heading upstairs when Admiral Kilbride cut him off at the top of the stairs. "Agent Callen, my office, now."

Knowing better than to argue, he followed the man into the office, closing the door behind them both. "What'd I miss?" he finally asked.

"Last night, I received this message." Admiral Kilbride replied, reaching for a small device on his desk. The Admiral pressed one of the buttons and the room filled with the sound of a voicemail recording.

He froze as his own voice echoed through the room. 'Hi, Admiral. It's Callen. Listen, I think I should just be honest with you. I can't do this anymore. I can't keep working cases and pretend like there's not something between us, and I know you feel it too. I just can't stop thinking about what you'd look like in a sexy little sailor suit.'

The answering machine beeped, signalling the end of the recording. Callen's eyes widened in disbelief, realizing the implications of the fabricated voicemail.

"That wasn't me," Callen stated firmly, his voice laced with frustration.

Admiral Kilbride's gaze hardened, his expression unyielding. "You think you'd still be alive if I thought it was?"

He gave a weak chuckle in response, unsure of how else to respond.

"The problem is it took a twenty-minute phone call to convince Director Vance otherwise," the Admiral continued.

That's horrifying. "The Director got a call like this?"

"Not just him," the Admiral said. "Over the last twenty-four hours, NCISHQ-MTAC and Cyber have flagged hundreds of inappropriate videos and messages posted on social media and e-mailed to federal law enforcement officials. All of them featuring you."

Callen's frustration began To boil over. "I thought they were working around the clock to take down the deepfakes."

"That's happening," the Admiral assured him. "But, it seems Ms. Miranova has enlisted bot accounts to disseminate them at an alarming rate. They're barely keeping up."

"This has to be in retaliation for the film reel," he replied. "She wants me sidelined so that I can't go after her."

"And that's what we need to talk about," the Admiral said. The man took a seat as he continued addressing him. "Up until now, these deepfakes have been no more than a nuisance. The, uh, product of a sexually frustrated and psychopathic troll, but now they are becoming a liability..."

Is he about to bench me? "Hold on a sec…"

Unfortunately, that seemed to be exactly where this asinine conversation was going. "… interfering with your capacity to present as a respectable member of this agency."

Callen couldn't help but interject, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and increasing frustration with the situation. "Do you really believe that?"

The admiral exhaled, his frustration palpable. "I believe that this whole thing is Looney Tunes. If you had told me a year ago that I would be dealing with mischievous digital facsimiles of my agents trying to seduce me with prank phone calls, I'd have moved to a yurt in Mongolia, never to be heard from again, but, apparently, this is the idiotic world we have chosen to live in." Callen fidgeted, shaking his head. "The Director is not only worried about the damage that Katya has already done, he's worried about the damage that she could do. He has asked me to remove you from the field until these deepfakes stop."

Callen's heart sank as the words settled in. He took a deep breath and then met the admiral's gaze, his voice steady yet filled with resolve. "And what if they don't stop?"

And that was the crux of the matter. Katya might cost me my job. She's never going to stop coming after me. And she may have already cost me Anna.

Fueled by frustration and anger, Callen walked out of Admiral Kilbride's office, his mind filled with a whirlwind of emotions. He needed an outlet for his pent-up rage, a way to release the seething frustration that threatened to consume him. Without a word to anyone, he made his way to the on-site firing range.

Entering the range, Callen's grip tightened around his weapon. With each shot, he vented his anger, aiming not just at the target but at the invisible forces that seemed to be conspiring again him. The sound of gunfire reverberated through the air, each shot punctuating his growing resentment. I'm tired of being used, of being a pawn in someone's twisted game.

His movements were fast and furious, his shots hitting the target with an intensity that mirrored his emotions. The paper target became a representation of Katya and all the obstacles and challenges she had been throwing his way. His determination to fight back, to neutralize her, surged with each pull of the trigger.

Time seemed to blur as Callen continued to fire round after round, his focus solely on obliterating the target before him. Each shot was a release, a momentary escape from the chaos and frustration that plagued him. Drona, Katya, Anna having likely broken up with him… it was all too much.

The firing range became his sanctuary, the place where he could unleash his anger and find solace in the precision and control of his marksmanship. The repetitive sound of gunfire drowned out the noise in his head, momentarily providing a respite from the relentless onslaught of deepfakes and Katya's vindictive campaign.

"Didn't expect to see you again so soon," he commented as he noticed the operational psychologist walk in. "How you doing, Nate?"

"I'm good," Nate replied. "How are you?"

Callen gave a weak chuckle as he reloaded his service weapon so that he could go yet another round. "Pretty sure we covered that last week."

"A lot can change in a week," the other man pointed out.

"I'm doing alright, Nate." Callen fired off four rounds into the chest of the target. "I'm dealing with it."

"I can see that," Nate replied incredulously. The man was clearly not going to buy one of Callen's usual lies about being fine.

"So is this gonna be a regular thing now, you checking up on me?" he inquired. I do not want a damn babysitter.

Nate clearly decided to try a different approach with him. "Callen, if you don't want to talk about Katya, you don't have to."

"I don't want to talk about Katya," he practically growled. Or the training program. Or any of it. Callen fired off two more rounds. "I want to stop Katya." And preferably by putting her six feet under.

"Maybe I can help with that," Nate said, much to Callen's surprise. "I've been studying Katya, and I've drawn up a psych profile."

He eyed the operation psychologist, finally taking off his ear protection. "Yeah, well, so has the FBI and the C.I.A. I don't need to read another one to know that she's a sadist driven by revenge."

"Except they got it wrong," Nate stated. "She's not driven by revenge. She's driven by obsession. When one plays out, she just hops on board another one."

He shot the operational phycologist a slightly incredulous look.

Nate sighed. "Look, think about it. First, it was Anna. Now, it's you. Now, I think if we can identify a new obsession, we might be able to draw her out, or at least get her to stop harassing you."

"What about an old obsession?" he asked. That teacher on the reel; I know his voice is familiar. He worked in Drona too.

"Possibly," Nate agreed. "If you could reignite it. Why?"

"'Cause I think I found one," he said. "Only you're... you're gonna think I'm crazy."

Nate winced at that last word. "I don't like that word."

Callen's eyes narrowed slightly. Really?

"Try me," Nate said after a moment.

Hopefully, he wouldn't regret confiding in Nate. Callen knew how it sounded, but every fibre of his being was telling him he was correct about this. It's him.

Chapter 4: Some Special School

Thanks to Katya blasting Callen deepfakes throughout the U.S. government, it looked like Callen would be on desk duty for a while, not something he was happy about. Of course, that made him more determined to convince Nate of his theory.

With that goal his only focus, Callen took Nate back to his apartment which he still had possession of until the following afternoon. Callen then played the Nobel Maidens film reel for the operational psychologist.

"So, you've heard that voice before?" Nate inquired as the reel ended, his curiosity piqued enough to hear Callen out.

He nodded with conviction. "Yes."

"When you were a boy in Hetty's training program?" Nate reiterated.

He gave a curt nod. "Correct." Please, believe me.

"Which means that the man from this KGB Noble Maiden film..." Nate trailed off, the operational psychologist connecting the dots.

"... Was also involved in the C.I.A's Drona Project," Callen interjected, his gaze fixed on Nate. "Look, Katya may be driven by obsessions, but her obsessions lead to revenge. I think she was hunting down this guy when she was embedded here as a spy. This film reel was her only lead."

Nate let out a sigh, contemplating the implications.

"You think I'm crazy," Callen stated, sensing skepticism.

"I don't like that word," Nate replied.

"Fine," he fired back. "Delusional."

"Let me put it to you like this," Nate said, changing tactics. "Look, is it more likely that your mind is fabricating this aural connection based on perceived parallels between yours and Katya's upbringing? Yes." The man then scoffed. "But is it impossible that this... instructor is someone who worked in both worlds? The C.I.A and KGB actively recruited from one another during the Cold War. They stole technology, tradecraft, even training. Add to the fact that the... that the Drona Project is based on a Soviet program, no, no, it's definitely not impossible."

"Wait!" he said, stunned. "How do you know Drona is based on a Soviet program?"

"Admiral Kilbride told me," Nate stated simply. "Wait, he didn't tell you that?"

"No," Callen replied, a tinge of resentment lacing his words.

"Why wouldn't he tell you that?" Nate questioned, puzzled.

"Well, it might have to do with the fact that I broke into some sealed archives and he threatened to fire me," Callen nonchalantly admitted. "But… I'm already halfway out the door. Might as well see what else he knows."

Nate sighed but followed him out of the largely empty apartment. Callen was already running down the stairs. "Yeah, this is gonna go well."

Wasting no time, Callen headed back to the office. He then asked Eric where Admiral Kilbride was, tracking the older man down in the shooting range.

"If you're hoping to purge your memory of that voicemail by another session of gun range therapy," the Admiral said. "I'm afraid I've already reserved it for that very purpose."

"You told Nate the Drona Project was based on a program that was started by the Soviets," Callen said. "Was that program the Institute of Noble Maidens?"

"That was a confidential conversation between me and Dr. Getz."

Nate eyed the older man. "With all due respect, Admiral, confidentiality only applies to doctor-patient conversations, not work-related conversations."

"How about classified ones?" the Admiral retorted.

Nate let out a weary sigh. "Admiral, you asked me here to help Callen."

"Remind me never to do that again," the Admiral fired back, clearly exasperated. The man started walking away.

"This isn't about me," he said. "This is about Katya."

Admiral Kilbride heaved a sigh before turning back around to hear him out.

"I think when she was in L.A. working as a spy, she was looking for somebody from the Drona Project," he explained.

"And why the hell would you think that?" Kilbride asked.

"Because I recognize the instructor's voice from the Noble Maiden film," he explained. "I think he worked on Drona too."

"Do you have any idea how crazy you sound?" the Admiral inquired.

Nate groaned at the wording and mounting tension.

"He really doesn't like that word," he remarked dryly. "Look -"

"Excuse me?" the Admiral interrupted, his voice tinged with indignation. "What -?"

"Admiral, I am trying to stop the deepfakes." Callen took a step towards his operations manager. "Was the Drona Project based on the Institute of Noble Maidens?"

The man conceded. "Yes."

"And what about Pembroke?" he asked. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

"No," Kilbride replied. "That's all that Hetty told me."

"Thank you," he stated earnestly.

With that, Callen started walking away. He could still make out the Admiral's ensuing comment to Nate, however. "Do you not understand what is happening here?"

That made Callen feel even more stressed out. He wasn't crazy. He just wanted to make sense of this whole mess and stop Katya. At least Nate seemed to still be on his side, unlike Admiral Kilbride. With Anna wanting a break, he felt more alone than ever.

Callen and Nate made their way to the Boatshed, where Callen had previously stashed the box of files he had obtained, rousing Sam from sleep to share the discovery at the time.

As they entered the dimly lit Boatshed, Callen retrieved the box of files and began sifting through them, his fingers deftly flipping through the worn pages as he relayed the information. "These are the files on the Drona subjects," he explained, his voice laced with a mixture of hope and urgency. "I haven't been able to I.D very many of them, but the ones I have, most of them are dead. One of them died in action. One of them was killed in the line of fire. Two of them by suicide. The only one who is alive is her, Subject Eleven. Leah Novak. She lives in L.A."

"Have you spoken to her?" Nate asked.

"I have," he confirmed.

Nate gave him a questioning look. "Did you ask her if she recognizes the voice from the film reel?"

"No," he said.

"Why not?" Nate asked.

"Mm... It's complicated," Callen said. He hadn't handled that situation the best and could admit it, if only to himself.

Sensing the need for a change of environment, Nate gestured toward the door, silently urging them to step outside. As they moved toward the exit, Callen took a deep breath and started to explain the events surrounding Leah Novak to Nate, hoping for some understanding.

Nate gave him a look of disapproval, however.

"In hindsight, it wasn't the best approach," he admitted.

"I just don't get it," Nate stated, confused. "Leah wasn't a suspect, she was a subject like you. Why would you lie to her?"

"Because she was Homeland Security and her file had been redacted, which lead me to believe that she didn't want to be found." His tone was definitely defensive. "I just felt that an indirect approach would be the most productive."

Nate's gaze held a mix of understanding and dissatisfaction, contemplating Callen's explanation. "I also think you could've tried a little harder with your alias. I mean, 'Greg'? It's basically the English version of Grisha."

Well, Nate wasn't wrong. Grisha was literally the Russian diminutive of Grigori.

"Do svidaniya, Grisha," his father said, using a name that seemed distant and unfamiliar to Callen, as he shook Callen’s hand.

"Grisha?" Callen's voice wavered, a rush of emotions overwhelming him at the sound of his name for the first time in memory.

"Grigori Aleksandrovich Nikolaev," his father confirmed, each syllable spoken with a weight that echoed through the air. The realization of his own name settled upon Callen's shoulders, like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place. The man then placed his other hand on top of Callen's, their mutual struggle to keep their composure evident to anyone watching. “Your mother wanted you to know from where you came.”

Yes, he’d been called Grisha by his family when they were still alive but that was essentially a nickname, a shorthand to be used by friends and family. Like Mike rather than Michael or how his late sister had always gone by Amy rather than by Amaliya, even before they’d been placed in American orphanages.

Resuming their journey in the car, they drove toward Leah's residence. Nate couldn't resist delving deeper into the matter. "And what about Drona? Does she remember being a part of it?"

Callen sighed, a tinge of frustration apparent in his voice. "I don't know," he responded. "We had dinner a few times. I tried to ask her about her childhood, but then I had to cut it off."

"Why?" Nate questioned, receiving a pointed look from Callen. The realization washed over Nate, prompting him to backtrack. "Oh."

Arriving at Leah's house, they stood before the front door, anticipation building. Leah opened the door, surprise etched across her face upon seeing Callen. "Greg," she stated, her voice a mixture of confusion and curiosity. "What are you doing here? And who's this?"

"We need to talk," Callen stated without preamble, his tone firm.

Nate and Callen proceeded to play the audio recording of the instructor's voice for Leah, hoping for a glimmer of recognition.

Leah listened intently, her brow furrowing in concentration as the words of the audio recording of the film reel played on his phone. "I don't know if I've heard him before," Leah stated. "I don't speak Russian."

Callen let out a sigh, his disappointment evident. "He's saying that, uh, pain is just a state of mind. That doesn't ring a bell for you?"

"Do I remember going to some special school when I was younger?" she asked. "Yes. That's because I had A.D.D." And they told me that I had Dyslexia. "No one talked about pain being a state of mind. This is why you lied to me?"

Nate tried to salvage the situation. "You have to understand that in Agent Callen's line of work, trusting others can be dangerous."

Leah's response carried a hint of bitterness. "I work in cyberspace, Dr. Getz. You don't need to tell me that people are liars. I'd like both of you to leave now."

Nate stood up to leave, but Callen didn't move. "Callen."

"Does the name Pembroke mean anything to you?" he asked in a last-ditch effort to gain something from this visit.

She shot Callen an annoyed look. "Go to hell, Greg. Or whatever your name is."

Leaving the house, Callen didn't bother to speak. He'd misstepped and could've cost himself his chance at getting answers. Nate, ever the perceptive psychologist, gave Callen space as he drove.

They were walking down by the beach outside of the Boatshed again not much later when Nate tried to engage him in conversation once more. The waves crashed against the shore, mirroring the tumultuous thoughts running through Callen's mind. "I was thinking maybe I could take a look at some more of those Drona files."

"Sure," he said, not expecting anything to come of it. "Have at it."

"Who knows," Nate said, clearly attempting to give Callen some hope, "maybe I'll find something that helps us identify one of the subjects."

"Who knows?" he repeated.

The operational psychologist shot him a look. "Look, Callen, I-I know today was rough, and you probably feel like you're right back where you started, but believe it or not, you actually made some progress."

"Anna moved out," he admitted. "Well, technically, we both moved out, but she's not gonna be moving back in with me."

Nate's expression softened with understanding, his voice filled with empathy. "I'm sorry, Callen," he offered sincerely.

"She says that I'm obsessed about Katya," he explained. "I'm starting to think she may be right. Who knows, I may be ruining my life more than Katya is."

"Well, that's the thing about obsessions," Nate explained. "The strongest ones feed off each other. And Katya's obsessed with you, which makes you obsessed with her and vice versa."

"So, what -?" he asked. "You're saying if I ignore her she's just gonna stop?"

"No, probably not," Nate said. "I mean, you know, Katya's unpredictable. She's driven by obsession, but she's also sadistic, and she's totally, just totally..."

He shot Nate a cheeky smile. "You can say it."

"She's crazy, okay?" Nate said. "She's pure, unfiltered, bat poop crazy town. She... She's crazy."

Callen couldn't help but share a genuine grin with his colleague. "Feels pretty good, doesn't it?"

Nate nodded, softly chuckling. "It does. It really does."

He merely hummed in response.

Nate eyed him. "Just don't tell anyone I said it, please."

"I'm not gonna say a word," he replied.

The lighthearted moment between them provided a brief respite from the weight of their ongoing investigation. As they strolled along the beach, the sound of crashing waves serving as a backdrop to their conversation, Callen's cell phone buzzed, interrupting the moment.

Glancing at the call display, Callen's expression shifted from amusement to intrigue. "Leah," he said, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

Quickly answering the call, Callen listened intently to Leah's voice on the other end. Nate watched him, noting the subtle change in Callen's demeanour - a glimmer of hope that had been absent earlier. "A few years ago, I reunited with one of my foster moms," Leah explained. "She gave me some old things I'd left behind, including some documents. One of them is a Department of Education Special Ed. enrolment form. They list an address in Cypress Park."

Elation surged through his veins, his voice betraying his renewed sense of purpose. "What's the address?" he asked, his words brimming with anticipation. He was feeling more hopeful than he had since the woman had kicked them out of her house.

"I just texted you a photo of the document," Leah said. "I hope you find what you're looking for, Agent Callen." With that, his fellow Drona subject ended the phone call, leaving Callen and Nate standing on the beach, a renewed sense of determination coursing through him. As they turned to head back to the Boatshed, the weight of the investigation seemed just a little lighter. I've finally got a solid lead.

Chapter 5: Collateral Damage

Callen and Nate parked on the street just outside of a large lot with a bungalow-style building. Uncertain about what to expect, he decided to go alone and approached the front door, knocking firmly. Unfortunately, there was no answer, so Callen retraced his steps back toward the street where Nate was waiting.

A sense of disappointment filled Callen as he let out a sigh. "No answer," he informed Nate. I was really hoping this lead would pan out.

Curious, the operational psychologist inquired, "Does it look familiar?"

Callen cast another glance at the building, its generic appearance offering no clues. The frustrating aspect of his returning memories was that they came in fragmented bits and pieces. "No," he responded with a tinge of frustration.

As Callen's gaze wandered, he noticed a green chalkboard sign positioned in front of the building which read 'Plants For Sale.' An arrow drawn on the sign indicated the direction of the backyard. "Let's take a look around back," he suggested, gesturing for the operational psychologist to follow him.

Nate followed him and they made their way around the building. Just then, a man's voice called out, breaking the silence. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Upon hearing the voice, Callen's body tensed up, recognizing it instantly. It's him.

"Please feel free to look around," the man said, his voice carrying a friendly tone. Currently occupied with pruning bonsai trees, he continued, "We're having a sale on lemon trees; fifty percent off. If you buy one, I'll send you home with a free begonia. Beautiful, aren't they? I've been shaping these trees their whole lives. Ever since they were little saplings." The man turned around the face them. "So, what can I help you with today?"

Upon seeing the man, Callen was instantly taken back to a time when he was eight and expected to rapidly construct a three-dimensional wooden puzzle of a gun under the man's supervision, only to be struck for failing to complete that task in the desired timeframe and ordered to finish the job.

"I'm Arnold Baines,” the man introduced himself, “and this is my garden.”

Nate, trying to ease the tension, chimed in, "Uh, Nate. And this is my friend, Greg." However, Callen struggled to find his voice, still shaken by the sudden encounter. "Uh, he just moved..."

"Hi," the man greeted.

"... and is looking for some plants to liven the place up," Nate continued. "I suggested a peace lily or a ficus, but that's just because those are the only two plants I can name."

"You're not alone in that respect," the man said. "The world is flora-illiterate. If I had my way, they'd teach botany starting in elementary school. We'd give every kid a lily, let them nurture it with water and sun and then take it away and let them watch it wither and die."

"That sounds pretty intense for elementary school kids," Nate said, a little taken aback by what he was hearing.

"Eh, kids are more resilient than we give them credit for," the man replied, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of wisdom and compassion. "Besides, it's only by understanding life that one comes to truly respect it."

Callen, finally regaining his voice, couldn't help but ask, "Is that why you work on bonsai trees? People have compared it to foot binding."

"Oh, no!" the man swiftly replied, a hint of passion evident in his voice. "Bonsai is not designed to stunt growth but to encourage it. To stimulate the brain and, yes, even the soul of the trainer. And, my friend, if you're going to speak on a subject, get the pronunciation right. It's 'bone-sigh.' It's Japanese. It's a beautiful language."

"Do you speak it?" Callen inquired, taking several steps toward the man.

"I did at one time," the man said with a hint of nostalgia. "But I'm out of practice."

He decided to test the man."A russkiy?" he questioned, switching to Russian. "Vy yego pomnite?" (And Russian? Do you remember it?)

The man's body language betrayed him slightly, revealing a flicker of surprise and recognition. "I'm sorry, was that uh, Russian that you were speaking?" he asked, attempting to cover up his reaction.

"Razumeyetsya," he replied. You understood me. (You know it is.)

"I'm afraid I don't speak Russian," the man smoothly responded, subtly confirming that Callen's observation was accurate. You're lying. "Just what I was looking for." The man turned back toward them both again and held out a decent-sized houseplant. "Snake plant."

Nate accepted the plant from the man, breaking some of the tension that had momentarily filled the air to the point where you could cut it.

"One of the heartiest household plants you can find," the man remarked, his voice returning to its friendly and knowledgeable tone. "Doesn't need a lot of water, doesn't need a lot of light." He then shot Callen a rather pointed look. "Just time."

Callen felt a mixture of emotions bubbling within him — memories, apprehension, and an unspoken connection to this man who clearly knew more than he let on.

Nate, deciding the end the interaction for Callen's benefit, interjected, "Thank you for your help." Nate handed the man some money, covering the cost of the plant. "We'll take good care of the snake plant."

The man nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I trust you will. Plants have a way of thriving in the right hands."

As they walked away, Callen couldn't help but wonder about the mysteries that lay behind 'Arnold Baines', the man who seemed to hold fragments of his forgotten past. He couldn't deny the anger he felt at the situation either though. His mind felt like it was spinning.

After that confrontation of sorts, Callen drove them back to OSP, his mind buzzing. As they arrived at the familiar headquarters, Callen dropped Nate off before heading back to the apartment over the bar.

Callen's car smoothly pulled into the small parking lot by the Squid & Dagger, its engine purring softly as he brought it to a stop. With a resolute expression on his face, he stepped out of the vehicle and made his way towards the entrance.

Inside the apartment, he wasted no time in sitting down with his laptop. The screen cast a pale illumination across his focused features as he delved into some relentless research on Arnold Baines. His fingers moved with purpose, navigating through digital archives and databases, determined to unearth the enigma that surrounded the man.

A couple of hours later, his resolve remained unyielding. With a mixture of excitement and anticipation, he picked up the phone and dialled Nate's number, asking the man to stop by so they could discuss his findings.

"Hey," Callen greeted Nate, his voice filled with gratitude, as his friend and operational psychologist walked through the door. "Thanks for coming."

Curiosity sparked in Nate's eyes as he took in the intense aura of the room. Casting a glance toward the screen, he couldn't help but inquire, "That's him?"

Callen's nod held a sense of accomplishment. "Yep," he confirmed, his tone carrying a mix of excitement and conviction. "That is Arnold Baines. I pulled up the permits and certificates of ownership for the place in Cypress Park. Arnold Baines bought the parcel in 1986. The previous owner was a behavioural psychiatrist by the name of Howard Pembrook."

Recognition flickered across the operational psychologist's face as he connected the dots. "Pembrook, Pembroke," Nate muttered.

Callen locked eyes with Nate, a glimmer of triumph in his gaze, and nodded.

"What happened to him?" Nate probed, his curiosity fuelling the intrigue.

"He died the same year," Callen divulged excitedly. "Except he didn't, Nate. He just changed his name. Arnold Baines is Pembrook. Arnold Baines is the guy in the film." Despite his conviction, he sensed Nate's lingering doubt. "C-Come on, he... he's got the same voice."

Nate scrutinized him, uncertainty clouding his expression. "I-I'm not so sure."

"You saw how he acted," Callen implored, his desperation seeping into his voice. "I need you to believe me. He understood me when I spoke Russian."

Nate's sigh was barely audible, his reservations still apparent. "Callen..."

"Nate, I'm not making this up!" he protested, his frustration palpable.

"I know, I know." Nate's response carried a compassionate tone, hinting at a desire to appease. "Why don't we just pick this up tomorrow? L-Look at it with fresh eyes."

"Sure," Callen conceded, a hint of dejection slipping into his voice. "Yeah, that's fine. I'm-I'm not doing much else." The bitter taste of his current restrictions, barred from active fieldwork, just added to his frustration.

Nate's gaze softened, revealing his empathy. "We'll get her, Callen. We will."

With a heavy sigh, Callen watched as Nate exited the apartment, leaving behind a silence that echoed his own internal turmoil.

Nate's advice echoed in his ears, urging him to take a step back and reevaluate his situation. But Callen just couldn't let it go. The mystery surrounding the connection between Howard Pembrook, him, and Katya Miranova consumed his thoughts, driving him towards an insatiable need for answers.

His determination burned brightly, guiding his next course of action, and with a very single-minded focus, Callen made the decision to revisit that property that had once housed his alma mater.

Arriving at the property, Callen's footsteps echoed in the eerie stillness. He shone a flashlight through the windows and saw nothing. It wasn't much different around the back either. Howard Pembroke had clearly decided to quickly get out of dodge after recognizing Callen - or rather Subject Seventeen - earlier on that day. It was as if Howard Pembroke had vanished into thin air, leaving behind a void of answers.

Frustration welled up within Callen, a gnawing sense that he might have missed his chance to uncover vital information. Just as Callen was trying to decide his next move, his cell phone pierced the silence, its ringtone cutting through the night. Glancing at the call display, he saw Anna's name and picture flashing on the screen. He hesitated for a moment, knowing she wouldn't approve of what he was doing, but ultimately decided to answer the call.

"Hey. How are you?" he greeted, his voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and genuine concern for her.

"I'm sorry about this morning," Anna's said simply.

"I'm sorry too," Callen replied, his words laced with sincerity. Deep down, he regretted the toll his obsession had taken on their relationship. He had never intended for Anna to become collateral damage in this whole mess.

"Listen, Callen, I don't want to take a step back," Anna said, multiple emotions shining through her words. "And I really don't want to move in with Arkady. I don't know what I was thinking."

His heart skipped a beat, conflicted by the weight of his actions and the realization of the consequences they carried. He wanted nothing more than to mend the fractured bond between them. "No, you were right," he admitted, his tone filled with remorse. "I-I have been obsessed, and I can promise you it is over now."

"I'm headed to the new place now," Anna informed him, her voice holding a mix of uncertainty and hope.

As Callen's gaze wandered while they talked, he noticed a security camera perched above him by the roof, a neon sign of his carelessness as of late. Regret washed over him, realizing the potential implications of his oversight. "You there?" Anna's voice brought him back to the conversation.

"I'm just finishing up work," Callen replied, his voice tinged with a mix of urgency and regret for lying. "I will see you soon, alright?"

"Bye," Anna responded, her voice carrying an indiscernible emotion, leaving Callen to grapple with the consequences of his choices.

As the call ended, Callen stood alone, the weight of his actions settling upon him like a heavy shroud. What have I done?

Chapter 6: Partners and Family

Callen stirred, the morning sun casting a gentle glow upon his face. He joined Anna at the newly acquired breakfast table, savouring the warmth of their shared moments in this new house before their days unfolded. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the enticing scent of pancakes skillfully prepared by Anna.

Seated across from each other, their eyes met, carrying a renewed sense of understanding and connection. Soft smiles graced their lips, a testament to the positive changes their relationship had undergone in the past two days as they navigated through the stormy waters caused by recent events.

As they exchanged words, the air around them became infused not only with enticing aromas but also with an underlying current of affection. Anna's voice resonated with a gentle warmth, tinged with vulnerability. Callen felt a profound sense of gratitude that the blonde was actually giving him another chance, fully embracing the opportunity to rebuild what he had unintentionally fractured with his obsession.

"You know, if you want, I can come with you," Anna offered softly, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "Visiting your sister's grave can't be easy."

Callen paused, touched by Anna's thoughtfulness. He reached out, gently clasping her hand. "Thanks, Honey. Maybe next time. This time… I need to do it alone."

Anna squeezed his hand, understanding and acceptance reflected in her hazel eyes. "I get, I do. Just know that I'm here for you, always."

After breakfast, Anna decided to go for a run to explore their new neighbourhood a bit. Meanwhile, Callen's heart undeniably guided him elsewhere.

Choosing a more personal journey, he purchased a small bouquet, a humble offering intended for his older sister's grave. Though Anna had kindly offered her company, he'd had to decline. This was something he felt compelled to do alone, just this once, allowing himself to fully immerse in the emotions and memories that awaited him at his big sister's final resting place.

Visits to his late sister's grave had admittedly been infrequent, but undeniably significant. Each time, he confronted the weight of her absence and grappled with the daunting task of whether or not to update, well, correct her gravestone. Including deciding how to blend who she was born and who she’d been forced to become after their mother’s death. That had been more than a little difficult emotionally.

Amaliya ‘Amy’ Nikolaeva Callen

Aged 11

At Peace

Born January 6, 1967

Died August 25, 1978

Gazing upon the recently updated gravestone, Callen couldn't help but release a heavy sigh. The permanence of those engraved words amplified the finality of her departure, though deep down, he had struggled to fully accept that she was no longer with him. A part of him yearned to preserve the fragile hope that one day they would be reunited, and the gravestone stood as a stark reminder of their separation. Of when they stopped being Amaliya and Grigori Nikolaev(a) for good.

Speaking aloud softly in their native tongue, Callen murmured, "Aș fi dorit să fi fost ținuți împreună, soră mai mare.” He sighed. “Salută-i pe mamă și pe tată din partea mea, dacă ești cu ei.” (I wish we had been kept together, Big Sister. Say hi to Mom and Dad for me if you’re with them.)

Romanian had filled their early childhood, serving as the primary means of communication before their move to the United States. Romanian had been the language they shared most often, despite their parents’ best efforts to also pass on both Kalderash Romani and Russian, the languages of their heritage.

It felt poignant, in his own quiet way, to address Amy in the language that had woven their past together, even if he had only fleeting flashes of memory of their brief time as a family. Callen couldn't shake the lingering discontent caused by the decision that had torn them apart, consigning them both to separate orphanages, each suddenly alone in the world. 

Silence enveloped him as he absorbed the weight of his emotions. With a determined resolve, Callen placed the bouquet he’d brought gently on the gravestone, offering his simply yet heartfelt tribute to his late sister. He took a moment to collect himself, finding solace in the stark stillness of the cemetery.

After a few sacred moments, he turned away from the grave, his heart heavy but his spirit resolute. He shot a quick glance toward their father’s grave just a few steps away and then nodded to himself. It was time for him to face the day and go to work. Though weariness weighed on him, he knew he had a duty to fulfill. A job to do.

Walking into the bustling OSP headquarters, several teams running around working, and Callen was greeted by an unexpected sight. A cardboard box brimming with a haphazard collection of items had been randomly left on top of his desk.

"Morning," he greeted.

"Hey," Rountree replied happily.

Rountree was busy making himself a drink at the coffee bar just a few steps behind Sam and Deeks' desks. Curiosity piqued, Callen pivoted towards Rountree and asked, "What's this?"

Turning to face him, Rountree replied nonchalantly, "Oh, that? Sam dropped it off on your desk as soon as he arrived. Didn't say why."

Callen hummed before continuing, "Alright. Any idea where he ran off to?"

"I think he headed up to the armoury," the younger agent responded.

Seizing the box of odds and ends, Callen ascended the stairs, making his way toward the armoury to see if his partner was there.

Curiosity burning within him, Callen couldn't help but ask as he entered the armoury, gesturing towards the box he had brought up from his desk. "What is all this stuff? Rountree said you left it on my desk."

Sam's gaze locked with Callen's, and with a trace of amusement, he remarked, "That, G, is all the stuff you left on my boat."

Callen's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?" he exclaimed, pulling out a neon green travel mug from the box. "I would never buy this."

"Stakeout in Burbank last year," Sam effortlessly countered, his memory unyielding. "You bought it so you could see it in the dark. You left it on the boat."

Puzzled, Callen sifted through the contents, retrieving a coffee mug that instantly triggered a memory. Holding it aloft, he addressed his partner, a mix of nostalgia and disbelief in his voice, "Wait. This... This was a Father's Day gift."

His partner shot him a pointed look, the unspoken answer evident in his gaze. "Do I look like the kind of guy that would drink out of a cup that says 'Who's Your Daddy?'"

"No," Callen conceded, a smile tugging at his lips, "and that's why it's a great gift." Setting the coffee mug back in the box, he continued, "Wha... What's with this purge?"

"A couple of brokers are gonna show the boat," Sam explained matter-of-factly.

"So you're really gonna sell it, huh?" Callen remarked, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice. "You love that boat."

"It's settled, G. First offer I get - finito, bye-bye!" Sam declared resolutely, his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. Glancing briefly at the screen, the man added, "Ah. Looks like we've got a case."

"Not for me," Callen pointed out, attempting to mask his disappointment, even as the situation weighed heavily on him. Admiral Kilbride's decision to keep him confined to the office still loomed large. "I'm still in detention, remember?"

Sam's hum of acknowledgement filled the room before the plasma screen flickered to life, revealing Shyla's face as she appeared down the hall in the bustling operations centre. His expression softened as he greeted the Admiral's long-time assistant. "Shyla. Looks like the admiral's doing everything he can to keep you here."

Fatima then entered the frame, followed closely by Rountree. "Hey, as far as I'm concerned, you can stay as long as you want."

Rountree chuckled, adding a touch of levity to the serious atmosphere. Callen shifted his attention back to Shyla. "Well, what do you have for us?"

"Petty Officer Third Class Nikki Lee," Shyla began the case briefing. "Junior intelligence specialist stationed at Seal Beach. She was found at the Long Beach Pier this morning. Pier cameras yielded no useful footage, but Long Beach P.D. is scouring for witnesses."

"She still had her jewelry on," Rountree interjected. "Doesn't look like a robbery gone bad."

Shyla nodded, her tone filled with gravity. "Coroner found marks around her neck. Preliminary determination is, she was strangled. T.O.D was around midnight last night."

Sam's gaze dropped slightly, a mixture of concern and determination crossing his face. "Okay, well, the killer could have disposed of her body in the ocean. So, check with Harbour Patrol and see if there was any unusual activity."

Callen nodded his agreement and then spoke. "And what area of intelligence was she involved in?"

Shyla's voice conveyed a sense of urgency. "Ballistic missiles. Her team has been collaborating with DARPA on a highly classified Next-Gen missile defence system."

He locked eyes with Shyla, his expression sharpening. "Reach out to the Seal Beach NCIS Office. Find out if they've experienced any security breaches."

"You got it," Shyla readily agreed.

Fatima's voice tinged with sadness as she remarked, "She's so young. She had her whole life ahead of her. Is it possible there are any other motives? Maybe something in her personal life?"

Shyla replied, her tone steady, "I'm still looking, but I did find a recent court document giving her full custody to her two-year-old daughter Lily."

"Custody battles bring out the worst in people," Sam chimed in. "See what you can dig up on the father."

"Copy that," Shyla acknowledged.

He nodded in agreement, his mind racing with possibilities. "Yeah, and, Fatima, why don't you and Rountree go talk to Petty Officer Lee's department head? Let's find out if there's been any suspicious threats recently, or if he knows why she was in Long Beach." He paused for a moment, taking stock of their reduced field agent roster. Both Kensi and Deeks were off duty that day. "Sam and I will..."

Before Callen could finish that thought, Admiral Kilbride's stern face appeared on the screen, filling the room with an authoritative presence. "Nowhere, for the moment. I need to speak with both of you," he announced, his voice demanding their immediate attention.

"On our way," Sam replied promptly, speaking on behalf of both himself and Callen.

The partners briskly made their way down the corridor, anticipation building within them as they approached Admiral Kilbride's office. As the door swung open, Sam couldn't help but chuckle at the unexpected sight that greeted them. There, standing beside the Admiral, was C.I.A Officer Sabatino, a figure who never failed to raise Callen's hackles. This turn of events only added to his frustration - sidelined from the investigation, now forced to deal with Sabatino replacing him.

Sabatino shot them a mischievous grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, look who it is - the dynamic duo. Bet you weren't expecting to see this handsome face today, huh?" he quipped, exuding a hint of self-assuredness.

"C.I.A finally kicked you out, huh?" Sam quipped back without missing a beat, his tone laced with playful sarcasm.

"Eh, not exactly," Sabatino replied, his smugness unmistakable.

Admiral Kilbride took charge of the situation, interjecting with a tone of authority. "Allow me to introduce the newly-appointed Special Deputy U.S. Marshal Vostanik Sabatino," he announced, shedding light on the man's newly acquired position.

"Now I can work on U.S. soil and carry a gun without all the logistical hoops," Sabatino explained with a touch of satisfaction. "I can tell you're excited."

Callen couldn't help but emit a dry hum before speaking, his skepticism still lingering. "Does this mean we actually have to pay attention when he speaks?"

Sabatino responded cheerfully, fully embracing the banter. "Uh, more than that. Now you have to care."

Curiosity getting the better of him, Sam posed the question that lingered on both their minds. "Why are you here?"

"I'm working with a multiagency task force that's tracking down Libya's recent covert attempts at procuring stolen Navy tech," Sabatino explained matter-of-factly, his tone brimming with purpose. "In particular, missile technology."

Sam's brows furrowed in concern. "Libyans are under an international arms embargo. This could be a sign that they're looking to replenish their military forces."

Callen interjected, his mind connecting the dots. "And you think this is connected to Petty Officer Lee's murder?"

"Too soon to say," Sabatino admitted. " Our intel suggests the Libyans found vulnerabilities within the Navy ranks. Petty Officer Lee's access and murder felt a little too coinky-dinky to ignore."

Admiral Kilbride took control of the conversation once more. "Sam, Sabatino will be joining you in the field today."

"Oh," Sam replied, masking his true feelings with feigned enthusiasm. "Copy that."

"I always wanted a partner," Sabatino remarked, his tone indicating both jest and sincerity.

"Maybe one day you'll get one," Sam retorted, subtly conveying his reservations about working alongside Sabatino.

As the focus shifted, Admiral Kilbride turned his attention to Callen. "Agent Callen, a word, please?"

Callen cleared his throat, exchanging a discreet glance with Sam before being left alone with the operations manager. What followed was a sobering conversation, filled with a strongly worded suggestion that he take several days off work to clear his mind and regain his focus.

Despite his seething anger, Callen maintained a neutral expression as he exited the building, joining Sam and Sabatino outside. As he swung open the front door, he overheard Sam's firm statement, "No."

"Don't you want to at least see it?" Sabatino persisted, his curiosity evident.

"No," Sam repeated, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Sabatino, undeterred, shifted his attention to Callen. "Does he ever let you drive?"

With a wry smile, Callen shot back, "Let's not open old wounds."

The conversation took an unexpected turn as Sam inquired, concern etched on his face, "Director clear you?"

His response was curt and direct, reflecting his simmering frustration. "No."

Sabatino's eyes narrowed, his curiosity piqued. "Ah, geez, what did you do?"

His tone turned defensive and Sam echoed the same sentiment, protective of him. "None of your business."

Sabatino, ever eager to establish camaraderie, made one last attempt to bridge the gap. "Look, if we're gonna be partners..."

Interrupting him, Callen and Sam both firmly stated, "We're not partners."

Sabatino brushed off the comment, opting for a light-hearted approach. "Agree to disagree."

Sam, sensing the mounting tension, interjected with a practical question. "What are you gonna do?"

Callen's response was as casual as he could make it. "Kilbride suggested I take a few days off. I don't know." He decided to play off something he'd learned on the phone the evening before. "Alex and Jake are going to the mountains. I may join them if that's good with you."

Sabatino, trying to lighten the mood, chimed in, "Sure thing. We got you covered, partner."

Infused with a subtle edge, Callen retorted, "I was talking to Sam."

Sam, offering a genuine gesture of support, commented, "Mountain air'll do you good."

"It would," he said, acknowledging the sentiment. "Ocean air would do me good too. I was thinking maybe I'd spend the day on your boat."

Sam's gaze met Callen's, a mix of understanding and regret in his eyes. "Nice try, G, but I-I have a showing this afternoon."

Sabatino, intrigued by their exchange, interjected with curiosity. "Wait? You're-you're selling the Michelle?"

With a nod, Sam confirmed, "Yeah. Know anyone in the market for a vintage, 70-foot motor yacht?"

Sabatino's face brightened and he nodded. "Yeah, I might know a guy."

Shooting a sarcastic look at his long-time, Callen offered a parting statement. "Good luck today."

Sam's reply carried a hint of exasperation, his tone also tinged with sarcasm. "Oh, thank you."

As Sam settled into his car, Callen turned on his heels, his steps leading him towards the motor pole where he'd parked his own vehicle, a quiet resolve settling over him. The weight of recent events hung heavily on his shoulders as he tried to sort out what his next move regarding this mess was going to be.

Chapter 7: Reconnecting

Callen sat behind the wheel of his car, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Frustration and restlessness consumed him as he stared out at the passing traffic. He glanced at his phone, contemplating his next move. With a deep breath, he dialled a familiar number, hoping that Joelle would pick up.

After three rings, the call was answered, the voice on the other end of the line exuding a sense of intrigue and readiness. "Yeah?"

His voice was blunt and to the point as he spoke over the line. "Katya's back. Deepfakes. I'm benched. Need your help."

The tension in Joelle's voice was palpable as she acknowledged the gravity of the situation. "Understood. What's the plan?"

His voice remained blunt, every word carrying weight as he laid out his plan, not wanting to waste any more time on unnecessary details. "We team up, track her down, and make her pay."

"Agreed," Joelle said, her voice determined and a touch of underlying fury. "Meet up tonight?"

"Works for me," Callen responded, his voice filled with unwavering resolve. "Where?"

Joelle relayed the details with precision, her words reflecting her no-nonsense attitude. "I'll message you the location. 1700."

His voice matched Joelle's bluntness as he confirmed their plan, the gravity of the situation fuelling Callen’s determination. "I'll be there." 

"Good. See you then," she replied, her voice laced with anticipation and a shared understanding of the dangers that lay ahead.

With that, he ended the call, feeling a renewed sense of purpose surging through his veins.

With a determined look etched on his face, Callen shifted the car into gear and drove off, his focus now set on their new operation, his mind ablaze with thoughts of justice and retribution.

Parked outside their new place, he was sitting in the driver's seat, contemplating his next move. He took a deep breath, his fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel. With a surge of determination, he reached for his cell phone and dialled Alex's number, hoping for a chance to see her and Jake in person. They didn't talk much and he hadn't been able to see Jake aside from occasional babysitting since everything with their father had happened, which hurt. He'd tried damn hard to fix things.

He waited as the phone rang, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, the call connected, and Alex's voice comes through the speakerphone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Alex!" he replied. "It's me."

Alex's voice carried a mix of surprise and cautious interest. They'd just talked the day before so this was a little unusual for them. "Grisha? What's going on?"

"I-I wanted to reach out," he said. "It's been a while since we've seen each other and I thought maybe we could spend some time together. That I could maybe join you two on that hike today."

There was a moment of silence on the line, tension mingling with the hope in Callen's voice that he couldn't quite conceal.

"I guess," Alex said after a minute. "We're going to Griffith Park rather than Baden-Powell. Can you meet us there in about half an hour?"

"Thank you, Alex," he said, audibly relieved. "I'll be there."

Callen's car pulled into the parking lot at Griffith Park a while later, and he stepped out, a mixture of nerves and anticipation coursing through him. He spotted Alex waiting near the entrance. He walked towards her, smiling. "Hey, Alex.” He turned to the ten-year-old. “Jake. It's good to see you two."

Alex's face softened and she returned the smile, a small flicker of warmth in her eyes. "It's good to see you too, Grisha."

"You should come around more so we can play Fortnite!" Jake quipped, grinning and pulling Callen in for a quick hug.

Together, the three of them started walking along the hiking trail, engaging in small talk although that was never Callen's favourite thing. Jake had no problem dominating the conversation, though. "Uncle Grisha, guess what? I got a new pet snake!"

He was a little surprised by that. "A snake? That's pretty cool, Jake. What's its name?"

"His name's Houdini," Jake stated with a huge grin. "He's really good at escaping, just like that magician."

He chuckled lightly, intrigued by Jake's choice of pet. "That's quite a fitting name then. He sounds like an adventurous little snake. How exactly did you end up getting a snake as a pet, anyway?"

Jake gave a small tilt of the head. "Well, Mom took me to the pet store to get some fish, but I saw Houdini in the reptile section. I thought he was really interesting, and Mom said it was okay to bring him home. He's been a lot of fun, but we've gotta be careful because he's quite the escape artist."

Alex chimed in, her tone slightly reserved but accepting. "Yeah, Houdini's definitely been an adventure in itself. Not my favourite animal, but I can see that Jake enjoys having him around."

Callen nodded, appreciating Alex's honesty.

"Well, I think it's great that Jake's found a pet he loves. It shows his curiosity and sense of adventure," he said. He then shot his nephew an amused look. "Just make sure Houdini doesn't escape too often, hmm?"

Jake giggled. "Don't worry, Uncle Grisha, we've been working on securing his enclosure. Houdini's clever, but we're getting better at keeping him in."

As they continue their hike, Callen found himself intrigued by the stories of Houdini's various escapes, and Jake's enthusiasm became contagious. They shared laughter and anecdotes, creating a bond over the mischievous antics of Jake's pet snake.

He grinned. "You know, kid, Houdini sounds like quite the character."

Jake nodded. "Definitely, Uncle G. Houdini keeps us on our toes, but he's part of the family now. I love watching him slither around and explore his surroundings. He's so curious!"

"I have to admit," Alex said, "I never thought I'd find myself warming up to a snake."

Callen decided to try and lightly tease her. "Who knows, Alex? Maybe one day you'll become Houdini's number one fan."

"That'll be the day," she quipped.

They share a lighthearted chuckle, the tension between them further dissolving.

On his way back home after the hike, Callen received an encrypted text from Joelle. It contained two recent surveillance photos of Katya, showcasing her seriously altered appearance, as well as the address for their little rendezvous. Intrigued by the photos and eager to continue the investigation, he acknowledged the message and confirmed the time and place would work.

He'd been driving for a few minutes when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen to see it was his girlfriend. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he answers the call, eager to hear her voice. "Hey, Anna, what's up?"

"Hey, Callen!" Anna replied affectionately. "Just wanted to check in and see how your day's going."

"It's been eventful, to say the least." He sighed. "Actually, I wanted to tell you something. I've been benched for a few days."

"Oh, really?" Anna asked, concerned. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine, Anna," he tried to reassure her. "The Admiral just wants me to take a step back and recharge. And I have a lot of unused vacation days."

"I can't say I disagree," she said.

"I know," he replied. "And guess what? Earlier today, I got to see Alex and Jake. We went on a hike."

"You did?" Anna asked, surprised but happy for him. "That's great! How did it go?"

"It was great," he said. "It gave me and Alex a chance to reconnect, and I'll take any chance I can to see Jake. Man, he's growing up so fast. He told me about his new pet snake, Houdini."

"Oh?" Anna asked, intrigued.

He chuckled. "Yeah, and apparently, Houdini is quite the escape artist."

Anna laughed. "That's adorable! A pet snake named Houdini." Her voice softened slightly. "It sounds like you had a memorable time with them."

"I did," he confirmed. "And speaking of family, how's your father doing? You said you were seeing him today?"

Their conversation continued, with Callen and Anna sharing updates about their day, before eventually hopping off the phone.

Callen arrived at his and Anna's new house in the Marina, a sense of purpose driving him forward. He entered the living room, the space still adorned with unpacked boxes, but he paid no mind to the clutter. Instead, he focused on a small desk tucked in the corner, where Anna's printer and his laptop sat patiently.

With a determined expression, he carefully printed out copies of the surveillance photos of Katya he'd been sent. The printer hummed softly as the images emerged, one by one, onto crisp white paper. He handled each printout with care, knowing that these physical copies held a significance beyond what could be seen on a screen.

Once the printing was complete, Callen deleted the evidence off of the electronics. With the photos printed, he then placed them into his old army green duffle bag, knowing it was a reliable and secure way to transport them.

He still had a few hours to himself, so Callen decided to spend some time unpacking before heading to the meeting with Joelle.

Callen began by carefully opening the boxes one by one, revealing the belongings that by and large belonged to his girlfriend. To nobody's surprise. He methodically placed each item in its designated spot, creating a sense of order amidst the chaos of their recent move.

Time seemed to slip away as he lost himself in the task. He rearranged furniture, hung up paintings, and made the house feel more like a home. With each item finding its place, he felt a sense of accomplishment and a renewed sense of belonging.

Finally, after a couple of hours, he surveyed the living room, now transformed into a more comfortable and inviting space. Satisfied with his progress, he glanced at the duffle bag again, now ready to continue his investigation.

Leaving the house, Callen carried the duffle bag with him, the photos safely tucked away. He locked the front door and headed towards his nearby parked car.

Double-checking the address he had been given, Callen discreetly entered the office building from the back entrance, moving with the practiced ease of a covert operative who had been on the job for decades. His footsteps were light, ensuring his presence remained unnoticed as he navigated the stairwell, ascending towards the designated C.I.A safe location on the third floor, Room #307.

As he ascended, his phone suddenly rang, momentarily disrupting his focused stride. Glancing at the call display, he recognized Sam's picture and name flashing on the screen, indicating an incoming call from his partner.

"Hey," he greeted, continuing his walk down the hall toward the office. "How was your, uh, day with Sabatino?"

“It was… entertaining,” his partner stated. “The man wants the three of us to team up.” 

He chuckled, appreciating the familiar banter. "Team up, huh? Alright. Well, maybe I won't come back."

"Well, we can't let Sabatino have all the fun,” Sam quipped. “And how was the trip with your sister and nephew?"

"The trip is good, yeah," he replied, the thought of spending time with his family momentarily easing his mind from the ongoing Katya situation. "Spending... spending time with Alex and Jake has kind of taken my mind off Katya."

"Sounds like it was a nice change of pace for you," Sam said. "What did you three get up to?"

"Uh, well, today... we went on a hike," he shared, his strides aligning with the memories of the day. Following the instructions etched in his mind, he deftly manipulated the lock mechanism until the thump scanner emerged. With practiced precision, he scanned his thumb, the green light instantly signalling his access to the secure room.

Sam's voice carried a hint of appreciation. "Fresh air's good for you."

He couldn't help but agree, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, who knew there was smog-less air two hours outside of Los Angeles?" Stepping into the dimly lit office, he ensured the blinds remained closed, casting a cloak of secrecy over the room. With a flick of the switch, the main light illuminated the space, revealing the utilitarian yet functional setup. "Oh, you know what, I got to... I got to run. I'll talk to you later this week?"

Understanding the urgency in his partner's voice, Sam agreed, "Sure. And, G, you should come by for dinner tomorrow."

"Great," he replied, ending the call. Almost immediately, he picked up the incoming call from Joelle. Knowing she'd secured permission to use C.I.A resources earlier, he couldn't afford to miss such a significant opportunity. "Hey, I'm here."

"Hey, Callen," Joelle said. "You find the place okay?"

"Yeah, this'll work," he reassured her, scanning the surroundings. The room contained a large table in the centre, a computer, a small bookshelf, and a substantial pinboard adorning one of the walls. The functional furniture promised a conducive environment for their work.

Relieved, Joelle pressed further, emphasizing the importance of maintaining a low profile. "Good. Did you make sure you weren't followed?"

"I did," Callen replied, a hint of mild annoyance evident in his voice. He prided himself on his situational awareness and understood the importance of maintaining security. "Well, you were right about one thing," he said, extracting two new surveillance photos of Katya from his army green duffle bag. "Looks like she's had some serious plastic surgery."

"She's taken significant measures to alter her appearance," Joelle confirmed. "Not to mention she seems to be constantly changing vehicles."

Approaching the pinboard, he eyed both of the surveillance photos, studying them intently. "Well, at least now... we know what she looks like."

"That's a start," Joelle agreed, her voice tinged with a hint of relief. "Stay vigilant, and we'll touch base soon."

"Yeah," he acknowledged, his mind already shifting gears to focus on the task at hand. "I'll see you soon."

With the call ended, he allowed himself a moment to take in the gravity of the situation. They were one step closer to ending this.

Chapter 8: On a Wednesday in a Café

Callen and Sam sat at a cozy outdoor table in front of a bustling café off the Santa Monica pier, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the scene. His large smoothie, a concession that he had made for Sam, contrasted with his partner's vibrant açai bowl.

Somehow the topic of history had come up. As their conversation flowed, the weight of Callen’s hidden past loomed in the background, waiting for the right moment to resurface.

Just then, as the morning sunlight danced upon their table, his gaze shifted, focusing on a distant point. The world around him faded, and his mind was transported back to his time in the Drona Project. The memory surged with intensity, overwhelming his senses.

Eleven-year-old Callen found himself stepping out of his Social Studies class, his youthful curiosity alive. His eyes sought out Subject Fifteen, a determined girl with clearly discernible Asian descent, as she exited Ms. Hargrove‘s classroom alongside him.

As they made their way through the hallway, the distant chatter of other Drona subjects filled the air. Callen and Fifteen continued their walk, their destination the gym where their Weapons & Self-Defence class awaited. The path led them outside, and they traversed a short distance across the yard.

"So, Seventeen, what did you think of that class?" Fifteen asked, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

Callen paused for a moment, a glimmer of intrigue lighting up his eyes. "I actually liked it," he said, his voice filled with enthusiasm. They'd been learning about the Revolutionary War. "The battles, the strategies, and the people who fought for freedom. It's pretty cool."

Subject Fifteen raised an eyebrow, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Really? I thought so too. I know Eleven thought it was boring though."

Continuing down the corridor, Callen caught sight of Subject Three, a rather outgoing boy. "You coming, Three?" he called out.

Subject Three glanced over at him. "Yeah, man. You ready for some action?"

Callen flashed a brief smile, his voice laced with cautious enthusiasm. "Always. Can't wait to put these moves to use," he replied, his eyes flickering with a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation.

Subject Fifteen turned to him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Can't wait to see what they have in store for us today."

He gave a little hum in agreement.

Just like that their conversation shifted, their focus redirected to the training session that awaited them. They finally approached the double garage doors, the entrance to their training space that they referred to as the gym.

As they entered the gym, the familiar sights and sounds of their training routine unfolded before them. Drona subjects were scattered across the converted space, engaged in warm-up exercises and stretching routines, their movements precise and purposeful.

The teacher, Mr. Pembrook, stood at the front of the gym. His eyes scanned the room, assessing each subject as they arrived. With a curt nod of acknowledgment, the man motioned for Subjects Seventeen and Six to approach.

Callen and Subject Six stepped forward, their gazes fixed on their head teacher.

"Today, you’ll all be working with new weapons," the instructor announced, his voice firm and commanding. "Go retrieve your assigned weapons from the storage area."

As the vivid memory from his alma mater lingered in his mind, he blinked, snapping back to the present moment. The café came back into focus, Sam's concerned gaze fixed upon him. "You alright, G? You looked like you were a million miles away."

"Yeah," he replied, voice a little distant as his mind was still reeling. Strangely, that was one of the more positive memories he's remembered from his time in the Drona Project. "Yeah, sorry. Just got lost in a memory for a moment."

Sam's brows furrowed, sensing there was more beneath the surface. "What was it about, G? Something you want to talk about?"

Callen hesitated, contemplating whether to share his newfound memory with Sam. But the trust and understanding he saw in his partner’s eyes made him want to push forward. "Uh… It was a memory from the Drona Project. I was talking to a girl I attended with, Subject Fifteen." Callen had only ever known her Drona number. "We were discussing our Social Studies class on our way to the gym."

His partner leaned in, his curiosity piqued by Callen's revelation. "What else do you remember about Subject Fifteen, G? Did you two become friends?"

Callen sighed softly, his gaze fixed on a distant point as he recalled the fragmented memories. "We weren't exactly friends in the traditional sense. We were both part of the program, and those connections were frowned upon. But there was something about her, something different. She was tough and had a genuine curiosity about the word around her.” 

His partner nodded, doing his best to understand the complexities of the situation. "Sounds like she made an impact on you, G. Even in that controlled environment, you found a connection."

"I guess," he said.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"So, you were saying something about your history classes growing up?" Callen asked, taking a sip from his smoothie as he leaned back in his chair.

Sam chuckled, stirring his açai bowl absentmindedly. "Yeah, man. History was my jam. Besides math, anyway. I loved learning about the past, you know. The battles, the heroes. It always fascinated me."

A hint of almost nostalgia flickered in Callen's eyes. "Funny you should say that. History was my favourite subject too. Well, that and P.E.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You never struck me as the history buff type, G. What got you into it?"

Callen's lips curled into a half-smile. "I don’t know. I guess I've always had a thing for stories. History is like a giant tapestry woven with stories of triumph, sacrifice, and everything in between. It's intriguing." He’d also learned early on to love stories in general, it providing him with an escape.

Sam nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I get what you mean, man. History gives us a glimpse into the lives of those who came before us, their struggles, their victories. It's like connecting with a legacy."

"Exactly," he readily agreed. "In that memory I mentioned… we had been learning about the Revolutionary War. I was like eleven."

As the conversation about history continued to flow between Callen and Sam, they lost track of time, engrossed in their shared love for the subject. The café around them buzzed with activity, but their connection deepened with each passing moment.

After a few more minutes of animated discussion, Sam glanced at his watch and sighed. "Man, I wish we could keep talking, but duty calls. I've gotta head in."

Callen nodded understandingly. "No problem, Sam. Duty always comes first. We'll pick up where we left off next time."

Sam smiled and tossed some cash onto the table to cover their bill. "Sounds like a plan, G. Thanks for the chat. It's always refreshing to dive into history with you."

They stood up from the cozy outdoor table, and Sam slung his bag over his shoulder. "Take care, G. See you soon."

"Take care, Sam. Watch your six," Callen replied, waving goodbye as his partner made his way towards his workplace.

With a moment of solitude before his next task, Callen decided to head home to finish unpacking the remaining boxes from their recent move. He drove through the familiar streets, his mind still processing the memories from the Drona Project that had resurfaced earlier.

As Callen arrived home after his time with Sam, he found the apartment quiet and empty. He knew that Anna had gone out for breakfast with her friend Stacy, so wasn't at all concerned. Although he enjoyed spending time with Anna, he also recognized the importance of maintaining individual connections and experiences.

With the remaining boxes waiting to be unpacked, he delved into the task, organizing their belongings and finding their place in their new home. As he worked, thoughts of the morning conversation with his partner and the resurfacing memories from his time at Drona lingered in his mind.

A short while later, the sound of the front door opening filled the apartment, signalling Anna's return. Callen turned to see her stepping inside, a bright smile on her face.

"Hey, Callen," she greeted, setting her purse down near the entrance. "I'm back."

Callen met her with a warm smile, appreciating her presence. "Hey, Honey. How was breakfast with Stacy?"

Anna walked over to him, her eyes filled with warmth. "It was great." She gave him a quick kiss. "Stacy always has interesting stories to share, and we had a good laugh."

Callen nodded, acknowledging the value of those moments with friends. "That's great. I'm glad you two girls had fun."

Anna intertwined her hand with his, a gesture that felt so right. "So, what did you and Sam get up to? Anything fascinating?"

Callen began recounting their conversation, sharing snippets of their historical musings and the memories that had resurfaced. Anna listened intently, her presence grounding him and providing a sense of comfort.

"Huh, that's pretty cool," she commented, her gaze filled with genuine interest. "It reminds me of my time at the Institute of Noble Maidens. I like History, but honestly, I much preferred the practical lessons. Learning to ride horses, shoot guns, and crash cars was way more exciting."

He chuckled, captivated by her connection to her own experiences. "I seem to recall you saying that before."

Anna nodded, a playful glint in her eyes. "It was fun."

Their lips met again, a shared understanding passing between them. When they finally pulled away, Callen smiled at her and whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too, so much," she replied earnestly.

Together, Callen and Anna finished unpacking the last of the boxes in their new home. With a sense of accomplishment, they stood back and admired the cozy ambiance they had created. They decided to take a break and savour some quality time together before their run. Engaging in a playful morning of card games and conversation, their laughter filled the house, reminding them of the simple joys their relationship brought.

For Callen, home had never been a word that resonated with the places he had lived in the past. But there, in the presence of Anna, home found its true meaning. It wasn't about the physical space; it was about the person beside him. Thoughts of how lost he would be without her filled his mind.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, their stomachs reminded them it was time for lunch. Anna prepared them a light and healthy meal, and they sat together, sharing a comfortable silence at their new dining table.

After finishing their meal, Callen and Anna retreated to a quiet corner of the house. Lost in the pages of their favourite books, they found solace in the gentle rustling of pages and the escape provided by the stories they held in their hands. The passage of time became insignificant as they immersed themselves in their respective literary worlds, finding comfort in each other's presence.

However, as the afternoon wore on, a growing restlessness settled within them, a yearning to explore and experience the world beyond their doorstep. Setting their books aside, they exchanged a knowing smile, both of their eyes shimmering with anticipation. It was time to embark on their run, an opportunity to discover the charms of their new neighbourhood together and get some solid training for Anna's upcoming marathon in. I almost ruined this.

Stepping out into the warm sunshine, they started their run along the scenic route of the Marina. The salty breeze brushed against their faces, and their synchronized footsteps created a harmonious rhythm. Their strides mirrored their shared determination and commitment to maintaining their fitness, with Anna sharing some stories of her own time at the Institute of Noble Maidens.

As they ran side by side, Callen couldn't help but steal glances at Anna, admiring her strength and grace. He marvelled at how their lives had intertwined, bringing them to this moment. Things had been hard lately, but there was something so easy about being with Anna and how she made him feel. He knew he wanted a future together and thought back to the engagement ring that he had stashed away. Should I try and ask Arkady for his blessing again? How should I ask her?

And so, the couple ran, their laughter and determination echoing through the Marina, as they embraced the unknown and looked forward to the adventures that awaited them, both individually and as a couple. The whispers of recent challenges and the delicate balance of their lives lingered in the back of his mind, including his recent meetings with Joelle about Operation Stop Katya, but for now, their focus remained on the present moment, the joy of running together, and the promises the future held. He'd let Joelle do most of the heavy lifting.

Chapter 9: Misdirection

Twelve-year-old Callen, not for the first time, entered a stark, windowless room after finishing his math class. His mind still buzzing with the complexities of numbers and equations, Callen shifted gears, mentally preparing for the role-playing interrogation scenario that awaited him. Sitting across from him was Subject Twenty-Four, his face a mask of indifference. Mr. Pembrook, the overseer of their interrogation training, stood silently in the shadows, observing the two subjects' every move.

Callen took a deep breath, relying on the skills and knowledge instilled within him by his school. His mind raced, evaluating the techniques at his disposal to deceive and misdirect Subject Twenty-Four.

The scenario commenced, and Callen adopted a guarded and curt demeanour. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, and looked Subject Twenty-Four straight in the eye. "Look, you're wasting your time," he stated bluntly, his voice devoid of any pretence. "I don't know anything."

Subject Twenty-Four, playing the role of the interrogator, raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "I'm not convinced," the boy retorted, his voice tinged with defiance. "You're hiding something and I intend to figure out what it is."

Callen met Subject Twenty-Four’s gaze with a steely resolve, refusing to let his guard down. "You can try all you want," he shot back, his words laced with defiance. "But you're not gonna get anything from me."

Unbeknownst to Callen, he had made a subtle mistake, a slip that Mr. Pembrook was quick to seize upon. Stepping forward from the shadows, the teacher’s voice resonated with authority. "Seventeen, you're allowing too much information to slip through," the man admonished. "Remember, maintain your composure. Be succinct and guarded in your responses. Do not divulge unnecessary details."

Callen took in his teacher's advice, understanding the importance of maintaining a guarded demeanour. Determined to rectify his mistake, Seventeen reconsidered his approach, choosing his words very carefully. Callen utilized misdirection and concise answers to steer Subject Twenty-Four away from the truth, skillfully manipulating the situation to his advantage, all while adhering to Mr. Pembrook's expectations.

A surge of anger coursed through Callen's veins, jolting him awake in the darkness of his and Anna's bedroom. Callen's gaze fixed on the ceiling, his breaths came in ragged bursts as a simmering rage consumed him. Beside him, his girlfriend slept peacefully, unaware of the storm brewing inside of him.

Fists clenched, Callen's mind swirled with tumultuous thoughts. The intrusive memory that had invaded his dreams left him seething with indignation. The knowledge of being used and indoctrinated gnawed at his core, fueling a deep anger that simmered within. How could they have done this to him? To any child?

The weight of the past pressed heavily upon him, and he resented the manipulation that had shaped his life without his consent. His anger was not directed at Anna; rather, it burned against the puppeteers who had controlled his existence. Though he felt betrayed by Hetty, the woman who had taken him in as a teenager and played a maternal role in his life, a glimmer of hope flickered within him, yearning to uncover the truth behind her actions. He desperately wanted to believe there was more to the story, that she hadn't known about Howard Pembrook's methods.

His mind continued to race with thoughts and emotions, refusing to find the tranquillity he sought. Adjusting his position, Callen sought solace in the gentle embrace of the pillows beneath his head. With deliberate intent, he tried to slow his breathing, allowing the steady rhythm of Anna's breaths to serve as a guide. After a few minutes, fatigue overcame his restless mind, and he surrendered once again to sleep.

The morning sun bathed the marina in a golden glow as Callen and Anna approached Sam's boat, his steps light with anticipation. The bond Callen shared with Sam, Aiden, and Kamran was a special blend of family and friendship that had only grown stronger over the years. Aiden's infectious laughter and Kamran's compassionate spirit had become integral parts of his life, even if their meetings in person had become infrequent due to their busy lives. Today, Aiden and Kamran had the chance to finally meet Anna, whom they knew Callen had been seeing but hadn’t yet met.

Approaching the boat, Callen spotted Sam standing on the deck, a warm smile on his face. Aiden and Kamran were by his side, the trio that had become his surrogate family in every possible way.

"Hey, Sam," he said, his voice filled with genuine happiness. "Good to see you."

Sam smiled, clapping Callen on the back. "Likewise, G." He turned to Anna. "Anna, it's good to see you too.”

Anna dipped her head slightly. "Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

As they boarded the boat, Callen turned to Aiden and Kamran, his face lighting up with joy. "Aiden. Kamran. Long time no see. How've you two been?"

Aiden grinned, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy. "Life at the base has been busy, Uncle Callen, but I'm loving it." The young Naval Lieutenant was stationed at Naval Air Station Point Mugu. "The guys are great, and I'm getting some great opportunities."

Callen nodded, a proud gleam in his eyes. "That's great, Aiden. Really." He'd always known the young man would thrive in the military. He was every bit Sam's son and inherited his old man's strength and determination.

Kamran joined in, her voice filled with enthusiasm. "And school's going well." She was in her first year in the Gender and Women's Studies program at UC Berkeley. "It's a challenge, but it's also opened my eyes to so much." She wrapped her arms around Callen in a bear hug. "I can't wait to tell you all about it."

His partner decided to lightly tease him. "Oh, Aiden, Kamran, meet Anna, the woman who has managed to domesticate your uncle."

Aiden raised an eyebrow, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "Finally, we get to meet the infamous Anna. It's about dang time, Uncle Callen."

Kamran playfully nudged Aiden, joining in the teasing. "Yeah, we were starting to wonder if she was just a figment of your imagination."

"She isn't." Callen couldn't help but laugh, his cheeks slightly flushed. "Alright, alright, have you three had your fun yet?"

Anna joined in the lighthearted banter, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "If you've been talking about me, it better be all good things."

"Of course," he replied without missing a beat. He did feel like he was being walked into a bit of a trap though. Knowing the game, he kissed her on the cheek. "You know I think you're the best."

Anna smirked and then turned to Kamran and Aiden. "I've heard so much about you two. Callen's only had incredible things to say. I'm thrilled to finally meet you both."

Aiden and Kamran nodded in agreement, their teasing expressions softening into genuine warmth. "Definitely," Aiden added. "We've been looking forward to meeting you, Anna. Welcome to the family."

Laughter filled the air as they continued to chat and exchange playful remarks, Kamran dishing up breakfast for all four of them.

As the aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee filled the air, the group gathered around the table on the boat's deck, eager to indulge in the delicious breakfast Kamran had prepared. The morning sun had risen higher in the sky, casting a warm glow over the marina, amplifying the joyous atmosphere.

Plates piled high with crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, golden toast, and perfectly cooked hash browns were set before each of them. Kamran raised her glass of orange juice in a toast, and the others followed suit, clinking their coffee mugs together.

"Here's to good food, great company, and unforgettable memories," Kamran declared, her voice brimming with excitement.

They all nodded in agreement, their smiles reflecting the anticipation of the day ahead. They dug into their breakfast, savouring the flavours and enjoying the laughter that accompanied each bite.

Between mouthfuls, Anna glanced mischievously at Aiden and Kamran. "So, tell me, you two," she began, a playful glint in her eyes. "What's the dirt on your uncle?"

Aiden's face lit up, and the boy leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, where do I begin?" he exclaimed, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Uncle Callen used to challenge me to basketball games, but he would always find ways to make the game more interesting. Like, one time, he decided we had to dribble with our non-dominant hands, and we ended up tripping over our own feet more times than we could count."

Kamran joined in, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Yep! And when we were younger, he'd organize treasure hunts for us around the house, complete with clues and hidden surprises."

Callen couldn't help but laugh, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. His fondness for puzzles and riddles, coupled with his unconventional childhood, had led to unique ways of bonding with the young kids. Michelle had suggested he run with it. "Now, now, you two," he interjected, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Let's not forget that Sam is right here. I'm sure he has some entertaining stories to share as well."

Sam's eyebrows shot up in mock indignation, a genuine laugh escaping his lips. "Oh, so I'm the target now?" he retorted with a feigned sense of offence. "Fine, if you're seeking embarrassing tales, let me tell you about the time G here tripped over his own damn shoelaces during an op."

His face slightly reddened, but he swiftly regained his composure, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Ah, yes, I remember that," he replied, playfully recalling the incident. "But let's not forget the time my partner here accidentally set off the fire alarm in the middle of a mission because he mistook a smoke grenade for a flashlight."

"It was pitch black, okay?" Sam retorted, feigning indignation.

The table erupted in laughter, the teasing and good-natured banter flowing freely. As they continued to exchange stories, their meal became a delightful blend of delicious food, warm camaraderie, and playful revelations.

At that moment, surrounded by laughter and the comfort of his chosen family, Callen felt better than he had since the truth about him being a Drona subject came out.

Sam, with a tinge of reluctance, excused himself for work. Anna and Callen opted to stay behind for a bit longer, helping Kamran clean up the galley area.

As they finally bid their farewells, Anna's mischievous eyes lit up, declaring a morning of virtual battles in Halo 5. Meanwhile, with a contented sigh, Callen flopped onto their new couch He positioned himself comfortably, laptop resting on his thighs, relishing the tranquillity that enveloped him as he prepared to delve once more into the world of Fast & Furious 9.

"Ty zavisim," Anna playfully quipped, her voice switching to Russian as they found themselves alone. Though not their everyday language of choice, both Callen and Anna were fluent in Russian, their shared fluency fostering a unique connection between them. (You're addicted.)

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he pressed the play button. "Ya zavisim ot skorosti," Callen retorted, his words laced with humour and a touch of self-awareness. (Addicted to speed.)

His girlfriend responded with an eye-roll, a playful glint in her eyes. "O, ya znayu. Ya videla, kak ty vodish'. I vse shtrafy za prevysheniye skorosti." With that, she put her headset on and turned her attention to her video game. (Oh, I know. I've seen how you drive. And all the speeding tickets.)

Amused by her teasing, Callen affectionately shook his head, his thoughts turning to a deeper matter. He couldn't help but think about the engagement ring he currently had stashed away, contemplating how to give it to her. She was the love of his life, and he wanted the moment to be special for her.

A hint of uncertainty crept into Callen's mind as he pondered how he had ended up in this situation. Growing up and even through most of his adult life, he never thought he'd genuinely settle down and commit to someone. It felt a little strange. But when he looked at Anna, seeing her happy and having fun, Callen knew deep down that he wanted this, despite his earlier doubts that it could happen for him.

Chapter 10: Work and Family

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. Callen blinked his eyes open, a sense of tranquillity settling upon him. Sleep had never been his strong suit but restful sleep had been ever more elusive lately. Yet, that particular night, the usual haunting memories had stayed at bay.

As Callen sat up in bed, stretching his limbs and savouring the feeling of newfound calmness, his thoughts turned to Anna. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he imagined her beautiful face, her laughter, and the love they shared. It's time for me to stop stalling and talk to her father.

While Anna headed out to see her friends, Emily and Stacy, he seized the opportunity to make a call that he'd put off for long enough. Callen took out his cell phone and then dialled Arkady's number, anticipation coursing through his veins.

Ring after ring echoed in his ear, but there was no answer. Callen furrowed his brow, growing concerned. Arkady was typically prompt in responding to his calls, especially since he'd started seeing Anna. Except for the last time Callen had tried and failed to have this conversation with the man.

Determined not to let unanswered calls deter him, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He grabbed his keys and, his mind set on meeting Arkady face-to-face, stopped by the man's house before heading to the Russian restaurant where he suspected Arkady was. Thoughts raced through his mind, his nerves tingling with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. He really hoped the meeting would go well.

As Callen entered the restaurant, the inviting aroma of Russian cuisine filled the air, tantalizing his senses. The cozy ambiance of the establishment actually created a comforting backdrop for the conversation that awaited him. His eyes scanned the large room, searching for the familiar face of Arkady. And there, amidst the crowd, Callen spotted him. Arkady sat at one of the middle tables, engrossed in the menu.

Callen approached him, his steps steady but his heart pounding with a mixture of emotions. He reached the table where Arkady was seated and did his best to appear both calm and relaxed. "Morning."

Arkady looked up from the menu, surprise flashing in the older man's eyes at the very unexpected encounter. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," he replied, his voice tinged with a sense of annoyance at that fact. "You haven't answered any of my calls."

Arkady's brow furrowed slightly. "You called me?"

He nodded, his frustration tempered slightly, "Yeah, about a dozen times."

Arkady shrugged nonchalantly, eyeing him. "Must be old phone number."

Callen's frustration simmered beneath the surface, but he composed himself. "It's the only number Anna and I have, and it was working two weeks ago."

Arkady leaned back in his chair, regarding Callen with a hint of amusement. "Well, like I said, old phone number. I change it every month for security purposes."

"That really necessary?" he asked.

Arkady's lips curled into a mischievous smile. "Well, apparently, it's working." A subtle change then crossed his features, the man's playful demeanour giving way to concern for his daughter. "Is Anna okay?"

"She is okay," he assured the man, a glimmer of affection shining in his eyes. "And that's actually why I'm here. Do you mind if I..." He indicated the empty chair that he was standing in front of with his hand.

Arkady gave a curt nod. "Yeah, yeah, sit down."

Callen settled into the chair, his gaze scanning the table and then meeting Arkady's. "Okay, please tell me you're not having vodka for breakfast."

Arkady loudly chuckled, shaking his head as he did so. "Of course not. It's nastoyka."

He raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. "Which is basically flavoured vodka."

Arkady waved a dismissive hand, offering a tempting suggestion. "No, it's good for digestion. You want breakfast? Syrniki? Draniki? Zapekanka?" He snapped his fingers to catch the attention of a passing waitress.

Politely declining the offer, Callen replied, "No, no, I'm fine. Honestly."

Arkady persisted, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Are you sure? Always so serious. You need to loosen up, Grisha. Stress kills."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Callen's lips. "I'm not stressed."

Arkady chuckled, leaning back in his chair as he contemplated Callen's demeanour. "No, okay." The man then playfully pointed at his own head. "It's like your head is like thermometer."

His gaze flickered between annoyance and amusement as he responded, "Uh, I don't even know exactly what that means. And, by the way, since when-when do you call me Grisha?"

"That's your name, is it not?" Arkady said. "Or you prefer 'G,' one letter, like 'Ye.'"

"'Ye' is two letters, but..." he replied, amused by Arkady's playful banter.

Interrupting their lighthearted exchange, Arkady leaned forward, his tone shifting to a more serious note. "How can I help you?" The man questioned, recognizing there was an underlying purpose for Callen's visit.

"It's about Anna," Callen revealed, his voice filled with a mix of love and concern.

"I thought you said she was okay," Arkady responded, a touch of confusion in his voice.

"She is," Callen assured him, his words brimming with admiration. "She's more than okay. She is... She's amazing. And I love her."

Arkady's initial reaction was one of familiarity, thinking that Callen had come seeking financial assistance. He reached for his wallet, starting to take out some cash. "Ah, you need money."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "No. No."

"No, it's okay," Arkady said, smiling wryly. "I mean, every now and then people need help. How much?"

His gaze held a glimmer of determination as he clarified, "No. I don't need money." He paused, his voice growing softer yet resolute. "I'm gonna ask Anna to marry me. And I would like your blessing."

The corners of Arkady's mouth twitched with a mix of amusement and disbelief. The man started laughing, thinking that Callen was kidding. However, as he recognized the sincerity in Callen's eyes, his laughter abruptly faded, and he muttered incredulously, "Seriously?"

"Yes," he affirmed, his voice filled with conviction.

Arkady's playful demeanour faded, and a protective glint entered the man's eyes as he declared, "No, is terrible idea! Absolutely not. I forbid it."

Callen's brows furrowed, a mix of disbelief and earnestness in his expression as he responded, "You're joking. I'm being serious."

Arkady leaned forward, his Russian accent thickening as he spoke, his tone grave and determined. "I am not joking. I cannot give you my blessing. Is disaster waiting to happen. Especially for you two."

His voice softened. "We love each other."

Arkady shook his head, a touch of resignation in his voice. "So why ruin it? Live together. Make baby. No, I cannot recommend that, either. No. Sorry. Is best for both of you."

A hint of frustration crept into Callen's voice as he challenged Arkady's perspective. "Because it didn't work for you?"

Arkady's response carried a note of cynicism, his accent adding a touch of authenticity to his words. "Doesn't work for anyone."

Callen's voice was defiant. "That's not true."

Arkady's tone remained resolute. "Mostly, it is."

A glimmer of determination flickered in Callen's eyes as he asserted himself. "You do realize this is just a considerate gesture? We don't need your blessing to get married."

Arkady's voice held a conviction. "Of course you do."

His voice grew stronger, his resolve unwavering. "Of course, we don't."

Arkady paused for a moment, his voice trailing off before he spoke. "If not, then..."

Curiosity tinged his voice as he interrupted, seeking clarification. "Then what?"

The man's words were laced with a touch of superstition as he cryptically replied. "Brak budet proklyat." (The marriage will be cursed.)

He stood up abruptly, his voice filled with defiance and determination. "Brak ne budet proklyat." (The marriage will not be cursed.)

A wry smile touched Arkady's lips. "Ty dolzhen znat' ob etikh veshchakh bol'she, chem kto-libo drugoy." (You should know more about these things than anyone.)

Confusion etched his face as he considered Arkady's statement. What's that supposed to mean? "Pochemu ya dolzhen znat' ob etom?" (Why should I know this?)

"Ty rom," Arkady replied matter-of-factly as if that explained everything. "Who knows more about curses than the Roma?" (You're Romani.)

Callen immediately bristled at the statement. He’d heard people carelessly lump Romani heritage in with outdated, superstitious nonsense before, but hearing it aimed at him? From Arkady, no less? That stung in a way he hadn’t expected. Especally considering Arkady knew his past - his mother’s murder, his father’s ensuing abandonment, and the years searching for scraps of himself. Callen sighed, his tone calm but laced with disbelief. “Okay, well, aside from being grossly inappropriate, that is ridiculous.”

Arkady leaned back in his chair, his voice carrying a touch of certainty. "Says you. You don't believe me, ask Anna. She won't get married without my blessing."

A spark of confidence flashed in his eyes. "Yes, she will."

The older man's voice held a note of challenge as he replied. "Want to bet?"

A smirk played on Callen's lips as he offered a parting remark. "Enjoy your nastoyka." He began to walk away.

Arkady's voice followed him, a touch of jest mixed with a hint of warning as the man replied. "I will. You enjoy bachelorhood... durachok." (Idiot.)

As Callen walked out of the restaurant, his expression shifted from confidence to a mix of frustration and disbelief. He reached his car parked nearby, still mulling over the encounter with the older man. Just as Callen was about to open the door, his phone buzzed, signalling an incoming text message. He pulled out his phone and read the text message from Shyla Dahr requesting that he go in.

"That's about right," he muttered to himself, not all that surprised that work was once again intruding on his personal plans. He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, feeling a tinge of disappointment that his discussion with Arkady had gone the way it did. I thought he was completely fine with me seeing Anna.

With a sigh, Callen climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, heading into a no doubt hectic day at the Office of Special Projects.

Chapter 11: Jeremy Chambers, Esquire.

Calling Shyla, she debriefed Sam on their new case before reaching out to Callen. As he drove to the hospital, his mind raced through the details she had shared. A couple of amateur burglars had attempted a break-in at a military base but had accidentally blown themselves up in the process. The botched heist raised questions about their motives and identities. Additionally, the scene had been strangely well-cleaned, adding another layer of mystery to the case. Fatima and Rountree had been sent to the crime scene to gather evidence, but so far, nothing useful had turned up.

Arriving at the hospital, Callen's keen eyes caught sight of Sam's sleek Hellcat, neatly parked in the underground garage. He skillfully maneuvered his vehicle into a nearby space and quickly exited his vehicle.

His partner stood waiting outside of his car, a playful smile on his face. "Ah, I was kind of hoping you decided to retire."

Callen returned the smile, a hint of amusement in his voice as he fired right back. "Oh, you hoping for my sake or for yours?"

Their banter lightened the gravity of the situation as they began walking towards the entrance to the staircase to the lobby.

"You get your dad all settled in?" he inquired.

His partner's expression turned weary. "Unfortunately."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "That good, huh?"

Sam sighed a touch of resignation in his voice. "Yeah, I think it's a fifty-fifty chance that one of us will kill the other by the time the week's out."

He chuckled, sharing in the understanding of the complicated Hanna family dynamics. "Well, my money's on Raymond."

His partner chuckled appreciatively. "Thanks."

"If it's any consolation," he stated, still reeling from how the earlier conversation with his would-be father-in-law had gone, "I may be giving Arkady a little dirt nap as well." He already knew from his last attempt to broach the subject that Arkady wasn't a fan of him and Anna getting married but it still stung. Largely in part because he couldn't tell if it was marriage in general Arkady was against or if it was just him specifically.

Curiosity etched across his face, Sam asked, "Yeah? What'd he do now?"

"It's more what he didn't do," Callen said, his voice holding a tinge of disappointment. "I asked for his blessing to marry Anna."

Surprised delight registered on Sam's face, a genuine smile spreading across his features. "You did? Wow. Congratulations, man." He extended his hand and shook Callen's firmly, expressing genuine happiness for his partner. "It's about time."

"Yeah," he said, tone turning solemn. "He said no."

"What?" Sam asked in disbelief. "Come on."

"I'm serious," he said, tone biting. "He is forbidding me to marry her."

The duo reached the lobby, the bustling atmosphere of the hospital enveloping them. Sam couldn't fathom Arkady's reasoning. "That's ridiculous. Why?"

He shook his head, his voice tinged with frustration at the entire situation with the older Russian. "He doesn't think it's a good idea."

Sam shrugged. "Well, it's Arkady. He's half crazy."

"Just half?" Callen retorted.

"What did Anna say?" Sam asked.

"I didn't tell her," he stated. There's no real way for me to have that conversation with her without me ruining any aspect of surprise.

Confident in Anna's resilience, Sam reassured his partner. "She won't care. She'll either laugh it off or tear him a new one. Probably both."

Callen's mind churned with the implications of Arkady's objection. "He said that the marriage will be cursed if we don't have his blessing. But wh-what is that, Russian? I've never even heard of that."

"You're asking me?" Sam asked with a small chuckle. The man then tried to offer him a solution. "Sic Anna on him; she'll scare him straight."

Approaching the front desk, Callen and Sam flashed their NCIS shields to the attentive African-American nurse on duty.

"Excuse me," Callen said. "Federal agents Callen, Hanna, NCIS."

The nurse acknowledged them with a nod, her gaze flickering over their credentials.

"You called about the John Doe who was brought in last night," the woman stated, her voice professional and all business.

Sam leaned forward slightly, his tone earnest. "Yes. Did he regain consciousness?"

The nurse's expression turned regretful as she shook her head. "Afraid not."

Callen's curiosity was piqued. "Can we see him?"

The nurse's response was immediate, quoting the instructions she had received. "His lawyer said he's to have no visitors."

Sam's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "His lawyer?"

Callen interjected, his voice filled with intrigue. "He was identified?"

Her eyes darted between both men, her uncertainty palpable. "No."

"Then how does he have a lawyer?" Sam asked skeptically.

The nurse shrugged helplessly. "I just know what I was told."

"Could be an ambulance chaser," his partner commented thoughtfully. "Have you seen him around before?"

The nurse shook her head, her attention fully focused on their conversation. "No."

"He leave a name?" Callen inquired.

The nurse excused herself momentarily, walking away to check out some documents.

Sam's analytical gaze met Callen's. "If our boy hasn't been identified, then no one's been notified he's here."

He nodded thoughtfully, his mind buzzing. "Well, if nobody knows he's here, how does his lawyer show up?"

The nurse returned, holding a small card in her hand. She passed Sam the card as she spoke. "He left his card to call him when his client wakes up."

Sam's eyes narrowed slightly as he read the card. "Jeremy Chambers, Esquire."

His lips curved in wry amusement. "Esquire. Fancy."

Sam nodded, his expression reflecting their growing curiosity. "Yeah, well, looks like Mr. Esquire has some explaining to do. Thank you."

Callen and Sam, finding a secluded corner of the large room, created a pocket of privacy where they could freely communicate. They then reached out to Shyla back at OSP over their comms.

"Jeremy Chambers is a partner with Meyers, Masters and Chambers," Shyla's voice came through the coms, relaying the information she had gathered. "Chambers himself is a bit of a specialist in civil liberty cases, especially those being bankrolled by the NRA Civil Rights Defence Fund."

Sam's voice resonated with determination. "Sounds like Mr. Jeremy Chambers needs an invitation to the Boatshed."

"Will do," she affirmed, her voice filled with assurance.

"How are Fatima and Roundtree making out?" he asked, concerned about the status of their efforts at the crime scene.

"They haven't called anything in," Shyla stated, "and I'm still searching through CHP cameras, but nothing so far." As if on cue, her tablet emitted a soft beep, capturing her attention. "Hold on, I got something. Not a camera hit, but some family members have identified our dead suspect in the morgue."

"Get a name," he swiftly instructed the Reserve Agent. "Send Kens and Deeks down to speak with them and update the team."

"Apply for a warrant too," Sam ordered without missing a beat. "Have, uh, Fatima and Roundtree search his home and vehicles."

"You got it," Shyla replied, her tone leaving no room for doubt. She was one of the newer additions to their team, but she was solid.

Heading back down to the hospital's underground garage, Callen and Sam hopped into their respective cars so as to make their way to the Boatshed.

Once they arrived at the Boatshed, their suspect's lawyer quickly began to test both his and Sam's patience.

Sam's annoyance was palpable as he couldn't help but ask, "You finished?" The lawyer seemed to be taking an eternity, staring at both of their business cards.

"You have to forgive me," Mr. Chambers finally said, breaking the silence. "I thought I was walking into a Hardy Boys novel rather than a federal law enforcement agency. You guys are like the grown-up Goonies."

Callen's irritation deepened, his arms crossed in defiance. He was running out of any little tolerance for this man's games. "Who's your client?"

"Afraid I can't tell you," the lawyer replied with a smug smile.

"He broke into a Navy base," Sam interjected, his tone laced with growing irritation.

"Allegedly," the lawyer retorted dismissively. "Do you have any witnesses?"

"He was found on fire outside the hole he and his dead buddy cut in the fence," Sam snapped, his patience wearing even thinner.

"Sounds like the victim of a tragic accident," the lawyer remarked callously, brushing off both the reality and the seriousness of the situation.

"No, it sounds like obstruction of justice," Callen interjected sharply, refusing to let the lawyer's nonchalant attitude go unchallenged. "Now, who's your client?"

"I can't tell you his name because I don't know it," Mr. Chambers claimed, further testing their resolve. "He's a John Doe."

Callen uncrossed his arms, resting them on his lap, leaning forward with a determined expression etched on his face.

Sam couldn't help but chuckle in disbelief at the lawyer's audacity. "So this John Doe, who's unable to talk, let alone move, called you to represent him?"

"Of course not," the lawyer replied, seemingly unfazed by Sam's incredulity. "Somebody called to render my services on his behalf."

"Okay," Sam said, his skepticism apparent. "Who?"

"They prefer to remain anonymous," the lawyer stated matter-of-factly.

Callen laughed a tinge of disbelief in his voice. "So your anonymous client retained your services without revealing the identity of the person you're representing?"

"Exactly," the lawyer confirmed, undeterred.

"And that doesn't seem the least bit unusual?" his partner couldn't help but question, his skepticism growing with each passing moment.

"We're living in unusual times," the lawyer stated matter-of-factly.

"So you're representing someone, and you have no idea who they are?" he pressed, refusing to just let the lawyer off the hook.

"The doctor and nurse who treated him had no idea who he was," the lawyer replied, attempting to shift the burden of investigation onto the two seasoned detectives. "So, you guys are the detectives, right? So detect. You figure it out. Gentlemen." With that, Mr. Chambers rose to his feet, a self-assured air about him. "Hey, don't get up. I will see myself out."

He hummed incredulously. This guy is really something else.

"This guy," Sam commented once the lawyer was gone, his voice tinged with concern. "He's analyzing our cards like American Psycho. I don't like this."

"I don't like any of this," he replied, his brow furrowed with a mixture of frustration and intrigue. The pieces of the puzzle were scattered, and they needed to find a way to put them together.

The large room fell into a brief silence as they exchanged glances, both of their minds racing with various possibilities.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, they didn't have to wait long for their case to pick up.

Kensi and Deeks found themselves met with a slammed door when they approached Ralph Langston's father, the recently deceased suspect. Before they were turned away, however, they managed to obtain the business card of Jeremy Chambers, the lawyer who had represented Langston in another case involving their current suspect, who was now in the ICU.

Ralph Langston was a bit of a drifter, drifting from one job to another, working as a mechanic, in construction, and even spending time with a welding company. He never seemed to settle down in one place for too long. He did a brief stint in the National Guard but was dishonourably discharged due to a drug violation.

Unfortunately, Fatima and Rountree didn't uncover any additional evidence at the crime scene or find any traces of a vehicle associated with Langston.

Callen instructed Shyla to obtain a search warrant for Langston's residence. However, Langston didn't have a fixed address. Instead, the man owned an RV that had been registered at Mugu Canyon RV Park for the past three months.

Recognizing the significance of the RV park's proximity to the naval base, Callen then sent both Fatima and Rountree to check the place out. It was an ideal location for an individual with less than good intentions.

Unfortunately, as Rountree attempted to open the door to the RV, it detonated in an explosion. Both young agents were fine, with no real injuries. However, Callen made the decision to pull them out of the field for their safety, despite their reluctance to stand down. Looking out for the well-being of his team was his job, after all.

Although the physical evidence inside the RV was obliterated by the explosion, Shyla managed to uncover a breakthrough in Langston's digital footprint. She had secured records of his calls, texts, and online activities. Langston was divorced and had no children, and he seemed to have never come across a conspiracy theory he didn't like. Additionally, he was an avid gun collector.

As they found no signs of weapons in the wreckage from the RV explosion, it appeared that someone had already cleaned out the RV, removing any real evidence before then setting the booby trap.

Interestingly, Langston's most recent phone and text conversations were with two local individuals: James Miller and William Baker. It seemed they were all involved in something together.

James Miller had been offline since the previous night, while William Baker had been making numerous phone calls. Baker had even set up a GoFundMe page for his friend who had suffered severe burns in what he claimed was a "military training exercise." It was becoming increasingly clear that James Miller was the suspect currently in the ICU.

William Baker owned a ranch inherited from his parents, who had once raised horses and cattle there. However, a closer look at Baker's photos revealed a more ominous truth - the ranch appeared to be a training ground for insurgents.

At that point, Callen told Shyla to request a warrant, and the remaining field team members, accompanied by Admiral Kilbride and Shyla, headed to Baker's ranch. Unfortunately, before the rest of the team could arrive, a bound woman managed to escape from one of the buildings. Kensi and Deeks, in a race against time, rushed in to confront the imminent danger, only to find themselves surrounded by multiple armed insurrectionists.

As the rest of the field team arrived, a firefight erupted. Baker somehow got his hands on a surface-to-air missile, but Admiral Kilbride swiftly neutralized the threat with a shotgun, taking down the piece of work.

Back at OSP, the team members, adrenaline still pumping through their veins, filed into the armoury, where they meticulously cleaned their weapons and stowed them away. The room buzzed with conversation as they discussed their plans.

Deeks and Kensi leaned against the armoury shelves, engrossed in a serious discussion. They mentioned their intention to approach a young girl named Rosa they'd recently met to ask how she felt about them potentially adopting her. Their faces showed a mix of hope and nervous anticipation. Privately, Callen thought they'd both be absolutely amazing parents. As a foster kid, I'd have killed to have parents like them.

Meanwhile, Fatima and Rountree stood nearby, engaging in their own conversation. Fatima's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she shared her excitement about watching a martial arts film she really wanted Roundtree to see.

Amidst the bustle, he was pretty quiet. He was focused on his own personal matter. While grabbing his keys and wallet from his desk, he tried twice to reach Arkady. Frustration crept into his voice as he left a message for the oftentimes infuriating man. "Call me back, Arkady. I mean it."

Sam, standing at his desk, observed the scene and chimed in to offer reassurance. "I really wouldn't sweat this, alright? Anna's Arkady's only daughter."

Callen's lips curled into a half-smile, appreciating Sam's attempt to alleviate his concerns. "Well, that we know of," he quipped, injecting a touch of humour into his response.

"If he doesn't give his blessing," Sam said with conviction, "Anna's not gonna let him come to the wedding. And you know he won't be able to live with that."

"That's not a bad strategy," he said, recognizing the validity of Sam's point.

"You're damn right it isn't," his partner said.

"Grab a beer?" he offered, a momentary respite from the weighty discussion.

With a sigh, Sam regretfully declined. "I'd love to, but I've got to get home to my dad. Maybe come by this weekend, we hang out?"

"Yeah. I would like that," he said, appreciating the offer.

"Okay," Sam said, his voice tinged with reassurance.

"Night," he said, his voice carrying a blend of gratitude and warmth.

His partner offered him a subtle nod, his gaze lingering for a moment before he made his way toward the door. "You too."

The sound of the door closing echoed through the now-empty office, leaving Callen in solitude. The room felt strangely quiet, save for the faint sound of Admiral Kilbride's footsteps, indicating his presence in his office.

Settling into his chair, Callen leaned back, his gaze fixed on his desk. He exhaled as he retrieved the engagement ring he had bought for Anna. The ring gleamed in the soft office lighting, a symbol of how deeply he cared for her.

As Callen stared at the engagement ring, the weight of Arkady's words echoed in his mind. Echoing in his ears, Arkady's voice emphasized the complexities and potential pitfalls of his decision. Doubt began to seep into Callen's thoughts, raising questions about the wisdom of his decision to propose.

"Right now you are good. When you are not, you are not. No need to complicate things. It's not as if either of you are the marrying kind."

"Is disaster waiting to happen. Especially for you two."

"She won't get married without my blessing."

He loved Anna and wanted to marry her but now he couldn't get Arkady's voice out of his head telling him that it was a huge mistake.

With a heavy sigh, Callen carefully placed the engagement ring back in his desk and headed home to his girlfriend.

Chapter 12: Down the Rabbit Hole

The next month or so was a crazy whirlwind, although things weren't as action-packed as they'd been for Callen and the team lately. As far as work went, NCIS got assigned their latest case after a bunch of stuff went missing from Naval Base San Diego, and they were determined to close the rather glaring security breach.

After three days of banging their heads against the wall, they finally hit the jackpot on the dark web. They found info about a weapons sale that matched the stolen items from the base, all connected to some dude named Marshall Davis.

Once they had that lead, Callen's team went into overdrive. The team set up wiretaps, surveillance cameras as well as started staking out Marshall Davis' office, hoping to catch something - anything - useful. But it had been almost a month now, and they still hadn't got their hands on any solid intel.

That was getting rather frustrating, to say the least. Not as frustrating as yet another embarrassing deepfake incident, however. Absolutely fed up with it, Callen, Anna, and the rest of his team ended up coming up with secret verbal codes to use at the start of every video or phone call, just to be safe.

So far, there hadn't been another incident, but Callen had a gut feeling that Katya wasn't done causing trouble. Unfortunately, despite Callen and Joelle's best efforts, their investigation into Katya hadn't turned up all that much to work with either.

As Callen sat in his car, driving to work after a breakfast outing with Anna and Arkady, he found himself stuck in traffic. The road was a mess, with everyone laying on their horns like there was no tomorrow. So, to escape the noise somewhat, Callen turned on the radio, desperate for something other than blaring horns and angry shouts to listen to.

"Freeway this morning heading into downtown, a little bit of a mess," the newscaster said. "Three crashes on the 110 near Pico, that's in both directions."

"Come on," he groaned, having grown impatient with the speed of traffic himself.

"But we are seeing a slowdown in the northbound direction this morning," the newscaster said. Callen's cell phone, which was mounted up on the car's dash right then, started ringing. "Give yourself some extra time if you are in the southwest part of town."

Figuring that it was probably important if Fatima was calling him before he even got to the office, Callen swiftly tapped the answer button, initiating the video call with her.

He smiled warmly as he employed their established verbal code. "Fatima, tell me something good."

"Hey," Fatima replied, "just looping in Sam."

He swiftly buried his reaction at the failed verbal code, keeping what he hoped was an easygoing smile on his face. That's not Fatima. It's a deepfake.

A moment later, Sam's face appeared on his phone screen. "I'm on."

Straining to sustain the fake smile, he attempted the verbal code he'd established with his partner. "Sam Hanna, greatest partner in the world."

"Somebody took a happy pill," Sam replied in jest.

Callen forced a laugh, masking his unease at the second unsuccessful verbal code. "What's going on?"

"We just got information from our wiretap that Marshall Davis is back in town and the deal for the weapons is going down today," the Fatima deepfake relayed.

"That was supposed to be a month away, what happened?" the Sam deepfake asked.

"Don't know," the Fatima deepfake replied, "but on the tap, Davis said that he was arriving in L.A. and wanted Stewart Grimes to meet him at his office at 9:30 to work out the details."

Callen nodded, striving to act as naturally as possible, as if he was engaging in a routine chalk talk with two of his coworkers. "Well, it sounds like they moved up the time frame."

"Well, we've been staking out Davis's office for a month," the Sam deepfake chimed in. "We're ready to roll."

Checking his wristwatch quickly before returning his gaze to the screen, he composed himself. "Alright, we need to move fast."

"I'll meet you there," the Sam deepfake affirmed.

"Okay." With that, he ended the call. He paused, inhaling deeply, his hand instinctively rising to his forehead as he tried to regain composure. The weight of the situation hit him with full force, extinguishing any trace of amusement. Countless red flags waved in his mind, a glaring indication of the gravity of the predicament unfolding before him. Something was definitely starting.

After pulling into a side street roughly ten minutes later, Callen quickly hopped out of the car and began rummaging through the bag in his truck, searching for one of his burner phones. Once he found it, he dialled Sam's number, hoping to connect with his actual partner.

Sam picked up on the second ring. "G. My main G man."

Callen attempted the verbal code again. "Sam Hanna, greatest partner in the world."

"I love you too," Sam replied, his response immediate.

A sense of relief washed over Callen, reassured that he was indeed speaking to his partner and not a deepfake. "You didn't just call me?"

"No," Sam confirmed.

"I received a deepfake call from you and Fatima," he explained. This time was different than the others, though.

"Both of us?" Sam asked. "That's gotta be Katya."

"Whatever she's been planning," he said, "it's starting."

"That means she could have built deepfakes of all of us," Sam replied. "Kilbride, Anna, SecNav. Anybody."

"The good news is, she doesn't know our verbal codes," he pointed out. "I said, 'Sam Hanna, greatest partner in the world...'"

"She didn't know the reply," Sam deduced.

"No," he confirmed. "Who would've thought you saying you love me would save my life?"

"Alright, I'll talk to Fatima," Sam told him. "Get her to set up our comms on a closed encrypted loop. We gotta know we're not talking to deepfakes."

"It gets worse," he said. "She tried to lure me into our stakeout we've been having for Marshall Davis."

"She knows about our case?" Sam asked, concern evident in his voice.

"Apparently so," he replied.

"That's scary," Sam remarked. "We've been on that stakeout for a long time. That means she's been running surveillance on us."

"If Katya wants us to go to the stakeout," he said, "I think we follow her lead."

"Maybe we'll get lucky, end this thing, huh?" his partner replied.

"Okay, let's set a meet a meetup three blocks south of the stakeout on 4th Street, in the alley between the blocks, alright?" he suggested.

"See you there," Sam confirmed.

About thirty minutes later, he was just a few blocks away from both the stakeout location and from the rendezvous point with Sam. As he made a turn, a firetruck suddenly appeared, quickly pulling up into the alley behind him. Following closely behind were an ambulance and a fire department SUV, both coming down the same street in the wrong direction.

With sirens wailing and horns blaring, he stepped out of the car, determined to approach whoever was in charge of the and tell them to let him drive through the blockade he'd wound up in.

"Get the kit," he overheard one of the female firefighters say.

"Hey," he called out, swiftly retrieving his NCIS shield and brandishing it as he walked toward the group. "Guys. Hello? NCIS. You got me boxed in here, Captain. I need you..."

A sharp, agonized gasp escaped his lips as the woman's tranquilizer dart made contact with his stomach, causing his entire body to jolt with pain. Despite the intense shock, he managed to remain on his feet, his muscles tense and quivering. But before he could recover, a second taser struck him forcefully in the middle of his back, causing him to crumble and collapse onto the ground, landing face-down.

This wasn't his first time being tasered, the last incident being courtesy of Hetty, but damn did it hurt. It hurt as much as the first time it had happened, apparently, as he found himself hit with a memory.

The atmosphere in the Interrogations classroom was thick with anticipation, as if every breath held its own weight. Mr. Pembrook, standing nearby, gripped a taser in his hand, its presence sending shivers down a twelve-year-old Callen's spine. The other Drona subjects lined the room, the group’s eyes fixed on Callen, their own expressions a mix of apprehension and awe.

A hushed silence descended upon the room as Mr. Pembrook took a step forward, his voice cutting through the stillness, cold and commanding. "Seventeen, it is time to test your endurance," the man declared. His gaze locking onto Callen's which were burdened with expectations. The weight of those expectations was palpable in the air. "Remember, pain is merely a state of mind. Embrace it."

Callen met Mr. Pembrook's gaze head-on, determination shining brightly in his eyes. With a resolute nod, the preteen spoke, his voice steady. "I'm ready, sir."

Mr. Pembrook turned on the taser, filling the classroom with the crackling sound of electricity. Slowly, he closed the distance between himself and Callen, the taser held firmly in his hand. The blue arcs of electricity danced between the prongs, illuminating the anticipation etched on everyone's faces.

"Stay focused, Seventeen!" the teacher instructed, his voice low and commanding. "Your ability to withstand pain will define your strength. Let it become your armour."

Taking a controlled breath, Callen centred himself, mentally preparing for what lay ahead. His body tensed as he tried to brace himself for the impact of the taser.

Mr. Pembrook brought the taser close to Callen's arm and applied it against his skin. At that moment, a jolt of electric shock coursed through his body, causing him to grimace and his muscles to tighten. The pain was intense, searing through his veins like fire.

Callen fought to maintain control, refusing to succumb to the agony. He drew upon his inner reserves, pushing himself beyond his limits. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he struggled, his eyes reflecting a mixture of pain and determination.

Mr. Pembrook observed Callen closely, analyzing his every reaction. The other Drona subjects watched the training session in a mix of awe and discomfort.

His body trembled under the strain, yet he refused to yield. Gradually, he steadied his breathing, trying to find a way to channel the pain into resolve.

Satisfied with Callen's reaction, Mr. Pembrook turned off the taser and stepped back, his face revealing nothing. "Good, Seventeen," he acknowledged with a nod, a rare sign of approval. "You have shown strength today. Remember, pain can be harnessed, transformed into your greatest weapon."

Callen, his body still recovering from the ordeal, met his head teacher's gaze with unwavering determination. "Yes, sir."

Focusing back on the present, he instinctively rolled over and struggled to rise to his feet. However, the blonde woman who'd initially tasered him swiftly positioned herself on top of him, exerting pressure and securing a firm grip on his collar.

He was starting to feel quite weak, drowsy, and disoriented from the Xylazine, but it was still clear to him that the woman intended to move Callen onto the nearby stretcher that two other operatives were bringing over from the ambulance.

Determined to free himself, he forcefully attempted to shove her off, struggling to find the energy for it. But just when he thought he’d might manage it, her fist connected with Callen’s face and sent his head crashing into the unforgiving ground. The impact was jarring, causing him to finally lose consciousness and slip into darkness.

Chapter 13: Under the Same Hand

The disorienting sounds of metal creaking and a door banging reverberated through the confined space, gradually rousing Callen from his groggy state. As consciousness seeped in, he became aware of his surroundings - the chair that he was strapped down to, the dimly lit interior of a shipping container.

A plasma screen, wheeled in front of him, randomly flickered to life, projecting the image of Callen's own face, eerily distorted by the deepfake technology that Katya had employed. Her satisfaction with the situation was palpable as she taunted him from the screen. "Ha. Wow. Not looking so good, Bud. Rough morning there?"

Aching and disoriented, he squinted through the pain and locked eyes with her. "Katya."

A smirk played on her lips as she revelled in her perverse game. "We've got a great show for you today," Katya announced, her voice laced with what he labelled as sadistic delight. "Have you ever seen 'This Is Your Life?' Really moving. Well, this is like that, but I call this one 'This Is the End of Your Life.'"

Her words hung in the air, a chilling prelude to the torment that awaited him. Bound by the restraints, he listened, hoping his captor would slip up.

Katya continued, her voice taking on a sinister edge. "You know, when one becomes obsessed with another person, and you begin to get inside their life, you learn their habits, their desires and it becomes very intimate. Almost sеxual."

"How did you know about our case against Marshall Davis?" he inquired, hoping to gain information that could help him.

"I didn't know about the case," she replied. "I created the case." Katya chuckled at his expression. "Come on, all I had to do was throw a few details out there on the dark web about a weapon sale that matched the items stolen from Naval Base San Diego and you all came buzzing back like good little bees to service your queen." The delight in her voice bordered on madness. "Yeah, you staked out that office over and over. Ample opportunity to put trackers on your cars. Follow you, photograph you, record your conversations. It helped me to become very intimate with you."

His mind raced, attempting to piece together the puzzle she had crafted. "And what'd it get you?" he pressed, determined to uncover her ultimate motives.

Katya's laughter pierced the air, a chilling sound that sent shivers down his spine. "Oh, does Anna know that you've been seeing that little one-legged bitch?" she jeered, relishing in her attempts to destabilize him.

"I'm not seeing Joelle," he defended, his voice laced with defiance. Meeting with her, yes, but I'd never cheat on Anna. It's just business.

"I know that you've been secretly meeting with her," Katya replied, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Speaking of dear Anna, do you ever think it's kind of funny that you and I are in love with the same woman? I mean, think about it. We've had sеx with the same human. We've shared that, uh, that intimacy."

"Who's we?" he retorted, his voice tinged with contempt. "'Cause all I see is someone hiding behind a computer. You're like a desperate little fourteen-year-old hacker sitting in her room trying to play practical jokes."

"I'm not hiding," she seethed, abruptly shutting off the deepfake projection. "I'm right here. Believe me, I've wanted to look you in the eye since the moment you took what I wanted most in this world."

Raising an eyebrow, he maintained his composure, refusing to give the woman an inch. "What's that, your Minecraft account?"

Her voice turned sombre, carrying a weight of longing and pain that Callen could, if he let himself, empathize with. "The only person I ever loved."

"There is something you want more than Anna," he asserted, his words carrying a hint of truth masked by his desire to establish a connection with Katya. To hopefully make her see him as a kindred spirit of sorts.

"There's nothing I want more than her," Katya insisted. "She was my chance at having some happiness in this miserable life."

"You don't feed off happiness," he stated with conviction. "You feed off hate and revenge. Katya, you and I want the same thing."

Curiosity flickered in her eyes as she probed further. "And what would that be?" she inquired, her guard momentarily lowered.

"To see Howard Pembrook dead," he confessed, his words cloaked in a mix of honesty and masked intentions. The thought of confronting their former head teacher and extracting answers, perhaps even finding closure, lingered within him, entwined with the desire for justice. He'd prefer to get the answers from Hetty, but still… He wasn't going to lie to himself and not admit a small part of him had meant that.

"There's been no trace of Howard Pembrook on this planet in twenty-five years," she said pointedly, her voice cutting through the tension as she walked closer to the camera. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"That's not true," he said without missing a beat, his confidence unwavering. "I've spoken to him in person. He's been living under an alias."

"What was the name he was using?" she asked, her arms crossed tightly against her chest as she did so.

"Talk to me face-to-face and I'll tell you," he replied, his voice steady, challenging her to meet him on slightly more equal terms.

"You're lying," she accused, her voice laced with skepticism.

"I'm not," he assured her. Manipulating you sure, but our former teacher is very much alive and well.

Katya turned to the woman who had been the first to taser him in the ambush earlier, instructing her firmly, "Watch him."

The blonde woman walked right up to the camera. "I love to watch."

"Who are you?" he asked, a hint of curiosity mixed with caution in his voice.

"I'm the one who made your face not so pretty," the woman quipped, a wicked smirk curling upon her lips.

He hummed, acknowledging the statement with a touch of defiance.

Katya finally entered the room, her gaze piercing as she locked eyes with him. She scrutinized his every move, her voice cold and dangerous. "You lie to me about Pembrook, you will be playing with fire. Literally, the pain of burning to death."

"What, no hello?" he quipped, his words dripping with sarcasm. "No 'how you been?' 'How do you like my new face?'"

In response to his taunting, her fist connected roughly with his cheek, causing him to grunt in pain. He had only a moment's respite before the second hit came crashing down.

Largely unfazed, he spat out the blood in his mouth onto the floor beside him, defiance and determination burning in his eyes.

"You think my rage is a joke?!" Katya accused.

"We were disciplined under the same hand," he replied matter-of-factly, his tone unwavering. "Trained to endure pain. Do you think hitting me is gonna do anything?" That managed to get her attention. "Whatever you're feeling, I have felt it. How many people on this Earth can say that? And no, I don't think your rage is a joke. I know it more than anyone."

"Let's see how much we're the same," she said, her voice slicing through the heavy silence that had fallen between them. Katya closed the distance between them and Callen felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He braced himself, uncertain of what was to come. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just tell me what comes into your head as I do this."

Katya leaned in, her presence swiftly engulfing him. The scent that emanated from her overwhelmed his senses, tossing him into a long-forgotten memory.

In an instant, the dimly lit shipping container he was in transformed into the Interrogations classroom from his youth. Eight-year-old Callen sat in the chair, his small frame restrained, his hand vulnerable and exposed. The metallic tang of blood and the sharp, lingering notes of cologne filled the air, intertwining to create a disconcerting symphony of odours that played with his senses.

Unable to contain his pain and fear any longer, tears streamed down Callen's cheeks, mingling with the crimson stains that marred his fingers.

His heart pounded, and his body tensed, bracing for the next blow, both physically and emotionally, as Mr. Pembrook banged the mallet on the wooden table just in front of his fingers, taunting him.

"Don't cry," Mr. Pembrook's voice rang out, cold and detached. The mallet hovered menacingly over Callen's fragile fingers, each movement a calculated act of control. His words echoed with an indifference that Callen found both infuriating and heartbreaking. "Crying causes pain."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Callen mustered the strength to meet Mr. Pembrook's gaze. His voice trembled, the vulnerability seeping through his words. "How do I not cry?"

The mallet struck sharply between two of his fingers, eliciting a stifled gasp from Callen who was grappling to regain control over his emotions. Mr. Pembrook's callous response echoed in his ears. "Like I've been telling you. Don't feel. Remember?" Callen took a breath and glanced down at the mallet and his hand. "Feelings cause pain."

The young boy nodded, trying to compose himself as the mallet came back down hard on his already battered index finger.

Katya's retreat snapped him back to the present, her intense gaze fixed upon him. The weight of their shared history hung palpably in the air. Her next question cut through the lingering echoes of the past. "Tell me, what are you thinking now?"

Callen inhaled, steadying himself before he spoke. "You're wearing his cologne." The memory he had just relived left a nauseating residue in his senses as if the scent had permeated the room.

Katya's eyes widened, her expression mirroring a mixture of surprise and sorrow. The emotions began to seep into her voice, tainting her words with a bittersweet tone. "Shulton Pierre Cardin," she confirmed, her voice trembling slightly with the weight of her confession.

Callen's voice was barely above a whisper as he responded, his words heavy with the weight of shared pain. "You found it?"

A trace of vulnerability flickered in Katya's eyes as she nodded. "It took a while... That smell haunted me. I wear it every day now."

Silence hung in the air for a moment, the weight of their shared connection palpable. Callen's gaze remained locked with Katya's, a complex blend of emotions swirling within the depths of his eyes. The scent of the cologne lingered, evoking memories that were bordering on agonizing for the pair.

"Why would you do that?" Callen asked softly, a complex blend of emotions swirling in his baby blue eyes. That would be so suffocating.

Katya's voice wavered as she tried to steady herself, a fragile attempt to hold back the tears threatening to spill. "So I got used to it," she explained, her voice catching in her throat. "I can't smell it anymore."

Understanding washed over Callen, a profound empathy for the pain she had endured. He knew all too well the lengths they had gone to suppress their emotions, the mantra drilled into their minds like a broken record. "I understand," he replied, his voice gentle, a fragile connection forming between them.

Katya exhaled, a mixture of relief and despair escaping with her breath. Tears welled in her eyes, her hand trembling as she wiped them away with the sleeve of her jacket. "My God," she said, her voice cracking. "I haven't cried since I was a child."

Callen's expression softened and he nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgement of the shared burden they carried as he repeated the mantra that had been beaten into them both as children. "Feelings cause pain."

A weak, bitter laugh escaped Katya's lips as she registered what he said. "You are my brother."

Callen inhaled. It seemed like he might actually get through to Katya, having painted them as kindred souls whose lives were ruined by Pembrook. While that was true, they were formed under the same hand, Callen wasn't about to forgive Katya for everything she had done. He understood how Katya had become a monster, but that didn't mean that she wasn't one.

Katya silently took a seat on the cold, hard ground at the far end of the dimly lit shipping container, her back pressed firmly against the metal wall. Weariness etched lines across her face, a subtle vulnerability softening the woman's features.

"Think about it," he said with calculated charm, fulling intending to take advantage of the emotional opening she'd given him. "We could find him together."

"You'd never work with me," she asserted, her voice tinged with a hint of sorrow, a hint of awareness. "You'd never just let me walk away. The things I've done can't be excused."

His gaze hardened, his resolve solidifying as he met her eyes. You're not wrong, you crazy bitch. "If we find Pembrook," he began, his voice low and controlled, "you know what I'll do to him." He let the weight of his words hang in the air, carrying the threat of violence.

"Of course," Katya replied, her voice telling Callen that she had no doubt that he would make good one what he'd just threatened if the situation presented itself.

"It means I'll have blood on my hands too," he pointed out, his voice tinged with a mix of calculated resignation and feigned empathy. "Katya, you and I will put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger together. You'll have that over me forever. I'll not only let you walk away, I'll help you start over." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in, before continuing, "It will be a way for both of us to be fixed."

A bitter scoff escaped her lips, her voice laced with a mix of defiance and resignation. "I can never be fixed. I still want to hurt you too much for taking Anna away from me." With a sudden surge of determination, she rose to her feet. "I'll find Pembrook myself." With that, Katya walked away and slammed the door to the shipping container behind her. She clearly held too much hate for him and had put too much work into her revenge plan to change directions at that point.

As the heavy thud of the door echoed through the container, Callen watched her retreating figure, a mix of frustration and anger bubbling beneath the surface. He'd been so close to getting her to free him. His head hung low, masking the simmering rage that had been burning within him for a while now and the very real fear that his team wasn't going to get there in time to save him.

Chapter 14: This Dysfunctional Life

Sometime later, the plasma screen flickered back to life, casting an eerie glow across the dimly lit room. There, on the screen, Callen's heart sank at the sight of Anna, her eyes filled with fear, bound tightly to a chair just like him. The realization that Anna was now in danger, at the mercy of Katya, sent a shiver down his spine.

A sense of helplessness washed over him as he watched the scene unfold, desperately hoping that Anna would find a way to deceive Katya and ensure her own survival. The only glimmer of hope he had was the possibility that Anna would play along, feigning affection for Katya and convincing the woman that her feelings were reciprocated.

However, the situation spiralled out of control with alarming speed when Anna initially refused to tell the crazy woman that she loved her. Panic etched across Anna's face as she quickly realized the gravity of her mistake and attempted to backtrack, hoping to salvage the dangerous charade. But it was too late. Katya had seen through the little ruse, her eyes ablaze with fury and betrayal.

"Okay," Anna shakily said. "Okay, I'll come with you."

A chilling, almost amused chuckle escaped Katya's lips, the sound echoing through the room. "I knew you'd say anything to save him. I knew you'd lie to me."

Tears welled up in Anna's eyes as she vehemently protested, her voice now filled with genuine desperation. "No, I'm not lying!"

"I thought it would make me feel better to hear you say it, but it doesn't," Katya sneered. "It just makes me feel like I'm with a prostitute."

His girlfriend's voice grew more desperate. "No, I'm not... I'm not lying! Do you think what we had was a lie? Do you think I'm making all this up right now? Come on!"

Katya's gaze turned cold and calculating as she turned to the other operative that was there, a silent demand in her eyes. "Give me the gun."

Anna shook her head frantically. "No, this is..." Her voice trailed off as Katya snatched the gun from the other operative, its metal glinting ominously in the faint light. "No, Katya."

"The kiss wasn't real," Katya hissed, her voice dripping with scorn. "Your words aren't real. And if it's not real, it doesn't make me feel better. It just makes me feel more rage."

His girlfriend shook her head, trying to compose herself even as Katya levelled the gun directly at her. "No."

"Don't shoot her!" his voice erupted, filled with the raw desperation he felt. He knew Katya had muted him but he had to try. "No!"

The deafening gunshot pierced the air and time seemed to slow. His heart stopped as he saw the devastating impact. Anna slumped forward in the chair, a dark stain spreading across her shirt where the bullet had horrifyingly just found its mark.

A tsunami of shock and grief surged through Callen, threatening to engulf him entirely. His world shattered, and a surge of fury mingled with his sorrow. He struggled to comprehend the magnitude of the loss, his mind reeling with the cruel reality of Anna's life being snuffed out before his eyes.

Katya turned her attention back to the camera, a sickening satisfaction twisting her features. Her eyes glinted with a deranged delight, revelling in the devastation she had caused. "That feels real. That feels good."

In that moment, Callen's anguish transformed into a fierce determination. The loss of Anna fuelled a fire within him, igniting a resolve to seek justice and bring Katya to her knees. If he got out of here, Katya would pay. But for now, as Callen gazed upon the lifeless image of Anna on the screen, he mourned the loss of one of the few people he felt truly understood him. The weight of grief pressed heavily upon his heart.

Time passed, and the plasma screen abruptly flickered back to life, revealing the faces of Sam, Kensi, Deeks, and, to Callen's immense relief, Anna. A surge of hope mingled with his grief as he desperately pleaded within his mind, hoping that this wasn't just another cruel trick played by Katya. Please let this be real.

Katya's sadistic games continued, as she manipulated the team with a deepfake video, showcasing her hitting Callen and then proceeding to tell the team that she was killing Callen with hydrogen cyanide gas - how Stalin killed criminals during the Great Purge. "She sure likes her mind games," he thought bitterly.

Callen's attention shifted to his team's reactions, observing the horror etched across Kensi and Deeks' faces, Sam attempting to maintain composure but betraying his inner turmoil, and Anna appearing on the verge of unravelling, her distress palpable.

Sam, determined to anchor the team in reality, vehemently refused to accept the video's authenticity. "I don't buy it," he declared, his voice filled with determination. "It's a deepfake. I don't buy it. It's not real."

His girlfriend's voice trembled with raw emotion as she interjected. "You don't know this."

"Yes, I do!" His partner's response was resolute, his words laced with unwavering conviction. "Listen to me, she wants you. Until she has you, she needs Callen alive. Stop looking at it, look at me." The strength in Sam's voice was palpable. "Look at me. Callen is alive. You understand? He's alive."

In the midst of their emotional turmoil, Callen observed the unwavering trust and loyalty displayed by his partner. "Good," he murmured quietly, even though he knew Anna couldn't hear him. "Don't believe it." Sam's words resonated within him, urging him to hold on to hope. He heard Sam instructing Roundtree to disconnect the battery, a decisive move to sever the connection to their tormentor's manipulative games.

As the screen faded to black, a temporary respite from the torment, Callen couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for Sam's unwavering support. "Sam Hanna," he whispered, his voice filled with deep admiration. "Greatest partner in the world." He hung his head, silently awaiting the telltale sound of the metal doors to the shopping container swinging open, knowing that his team would never give up on him.

He didn't have long before Katya walked back into the shipping container, a sadistic smirk playing on her lips. "Enjoying their suffering?" she taunted, making no attempt to hide the fact that she wanted to relish the moment.

Callen met her gaze with unwavering determination, his eyes reflecting an inner fire. "They don't believe you," he countered, his voice steady and resolute.

A flicker of frustration crossed Katya's face, momentarily revealing her vulnerability. "They looked pretty scared to me," she retorted, a trace of doubt seeping into her voice.

Perplexed, Callen couldn't help but probe further. "Why are you doing this?" he inquired, a mix of resignation and genuine curiosity colouring his words. "Why not just kill me?"

A sardonic smile twisted Katya's lips. "You took everything from me," she spat, her words dripping with venomous resentment. "So I'm going to take everything from you. And then kill you."

With a dismissive gesture, Katya pushed the plasma screen aside, revealing three operatives entering the container, their chilling collection of bomb-making supplies in tow. The air grew thick with an impending sense of doom as they began their ominous preparations, their every move speaking volumes about the impending catastrophe.

As they methodically assembled the bomb, Katya resumed her little chat with him, her words carrying an eerie weight. "I believe after what Pembrook did to us, part of us wants to die."

Callen couldn't deny that he had experienced similar thoughts over the years, though he had managed to shove them aside. Sure, he had his fair share of anger, at Pembrook for the abuse, at Hetty for enrolling him in the first place, but the self-destructive notions had long been left behind.

"By making our emotions irrelevant," she continued, "he made our lives irrelevant. But your team…" she scoffed, moving closer to Callen. "Or should I say your friends? Really the only friends you've had in this dysfunctional life of yours. Their lives matter to you. A lot."

Of course, Katya had hit the nail on the head. Keeping his composure, he desperately tried to redirect Katya's intentions. "You overestim..."

"You barely see your sister or your nephew," she replied, standing directly behind him now. She leaned in close to his ear. "Sam, Hetty, Kensi, Deeks. They are your family. To see them torn apart by an explosion as they try to save you..."

Callen's tongue darted out, moistening his lips, a momentary slip in his composure as the haunting mental image took hold. With sheer determination, he swiftly regained control, repeating a mantra in his mind, forcing the surge of emotions down. Don't feel. It's just a state of mind. Don't feel. She wants a reaction. Don't feel.

Katya, sensing the momentary crack in his facade, seized the opportunity to drive her point home. "Now that's what I'm talking about," she taunted, her voice laced with sadistic satisfaction. "If they believe you are dying from the gas, even a little, they won't be thinking. They're going to rush in here to save you." Her hands rested heavily on his shoulders, emphasizing the weight of her words. "Their love for you is what's going to kill them."

"All good," Katya's number two said, evidently pleased. "The door opens, boom."

"Thank you," Katya replied, no real change in her demeanour. "Turn on the camera."

Without hesitation, the woman obeyed Katya's command, pulling up the camera on the black plasma screen with a click.

Leaning closer to his ear once again, Katya's tone was laced with a chilling finality. "Oh, and the best part? You're going to get to watch. Goodbye." With deliberate steps, she began to make her way toward the door, briefly adjusting the plasma screen as she passed. "Let's go hot."

With a resolute click, the blonde woman completed the connection of the final bomb component, leaving Callen with no way out even if he could get out of the chair.

Well and truly trapped, Callen sat there in the suffocating silence, his inner turmoil raging as he battled to suppress the overwhelming surge of fear, regret, guilt, and helplessness that threatened to engulf him. All the while, Pembrook's voice echoed hauntingly in his mind. Don't cry, Seventeen, crying causes pain.

Chapter 15: It's Over

He saw Anna coming into view on the plasma, his team clearly canvassing all of the shipping containers being stored on site. Despite his best efforts to suppress his emotions, an overwhelming sense of dread gripped him. Though he managed to maintain a facade of calmness, inwardly, he was a mess. "No. No. No, no, no."

He could hear the muffled shouting from Anna outside but couldn't quite make out his girlfriend's words. He could see her determinedly attempting to open the door, though, her face etched with determination.

"Don't open it!" he yelled, his voice tinged with desperation, hoping against hope that Anna would hear him. "Stop shooting! There's a bomb!" His eyes remained fixed on her, his heart pounding with anxiety, as she drew her service weapon and fired at the lock on the shipping container. "Don't shoot!"

Muffled shouts from Anna reached his ears, but the words were indiscernible. His gaze remained fixed on her, observing her attempts to open the container's door.

"Don't open it!" Callen urgently shouted, desperately hoping Anna would hear him. "Stop shooting! There's a bomb!" He watched as she drew her service weapon and fired at the lock, his heart pounding with anxiety. "Don't shoot!"

Muffled shouts and banging from outside grew louder, intensifying his sense of urgency and the imminent danger that hung in the air like an invisible shroud.

"Don't shoot!" he repeated, his voice filled with a mixture of fear and determination, as she fired another shot at the lock. A knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him. Dear God, she's going to accidentally set it off!

Anna successfully shattered the lock, and with swift precision, she began removing it. The seconds felt like an eternity to Callen, his breath caught in his throat as he watched his girlfriend prepare to open the container's door. "Don't open the door!" Callen's voice rang out, strained with apprehension. Amidst the continuing muffled shouting from Anna, who meticulously explored the doors, he implored her, "Anna, no!"

Then, relief flooded through him as he saw Sam stepping into view. Sam would intervene, he reassured himself. And true to his hopes, his partner promptly shut the metal door, preventing it from being opened too wide, and instructed Anna to let him check the door for booby traps.

"Sam!" Callen called out, his voice a mixture of gratitude and relief, as Sam's presence brought a flicker of hope in the face of imminent danger. "Don't open the door. There's a bomb!"

"I see it," Sam responded calmly, his voice carrying a hint of determination. "Just sit tight."

"I-I don't really have a choice," Callen admitted, his voice tinged with resignation. "She's got me strapped to a chair."

"I'm-a need my bomb kit," Sam relayed into his comms, his words brimming with a sense of urgency and authority. Callen had to figure he was addressing either Kensi or Rountree. "Okay." Sam then turned his attention to Anna, gaze steady. "Anna, get out of here."

Anna locked eyes with the former SEAL, her expression fraught with hesitation and fierce determination. "Sam..."

Sam met her gaze firmly, a mix of understanding and resolve in his eyes. "Just go, just go."

She held her ground, unwavering. "Sam."

Sam's gaze matched her determination, his voice carrying a tinge of admiration. "Anna."

"There's no way I'm leaving," she declared, her voice unwavering, her eyes locked with Sam's.

Sam conceded, recognizing the futility of trying to persuade her. "I'm not gonna argue with you, Anna."

Rountree approached, his voice laced with concern as he handed Sam his bomb kit. Sam accepted it, dismissing the junior agent with a nod. "Get out of here."

A heavy silence hung in the air as Sam meticulously opened the door a little wider, his focus fixated on cutting through several wires. He muttered to himself throughout the process, his concentration unwavering.

"Okay," Sam announced, breaking the tension. "I'm opening the door, but the bomb is not defused yet."

"Okay," Callen acknowledged, his voice filled with a mix of apprehension and trust, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

"Alright, opening the door," Sam warned, his voice tinged with a sense of caution.

The metal door creaked, its haunting sound adding an extra layer of suspense to the already extremely tense situation.

"Alright," Sam said, turning his attention to Anna, a combination of caution and urgency in his voice. "Go in there." There was just enough room for Anna to get through and untie Callen. "Get him out of there."

The door was just wide enough for Anna to squeeze through, her determination evident as she maneuvered herself to untie Callen. Every movement was fraught with caution, as if one wrong step could trigger disaster.

"Easy, easy, easy!" Sam cautioned, his voice laced with concern, as Anna's right arm nearly grazed the hanging wires.

Meanwhile, Sam braced himself, attempting to squeeze into the container to gain better access to the bomb. Anna's focus remained fixed on Callen as she diligently worked to free him from his restraints.

Wordlessly, Anna swiftly untied Callen, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. As soon as he was released, they embraced in a tight bear hug, clinging to each other as if their lives depended on it. He held onto his girlfriend desperately, unwilling to let go, knowing that both of them needed the contact, seeking solace and reassurance in one another's arms.

While the couple found solace in each other's embrace, Callen's mind was still reeling from the magnitude of the danger they had narrowly escaped. He was only partially present, his thoughts consumed by the haunting knowledge of just how horribly things could have gone. Interrupting his reverie, his partner's voice cut through the tense atmosphere. "The bomb is defused."

A wave of relief washed over Callen, yet he remained locked in the embrace, not yet ready to let go of Anna. The sense of gratitude for Sam and overwhelming emotions threatened to overflow. Don't cry, crying causes pain. Don't cry.

Sam shot him and Anna a look, a mixture of relief and satisfaction in his eyes. "You're welcome," he said before turning away, leaving the couple alone for a couple of minutes before they had to go out and face the world again.

Although they were able to steal a few moments of reprieve, Callen and Anna knew they couldn't linger any longer. They had to face the aftermath and make their official statements amidst the flood of law enforcement personnel that swarmed the scene.

Callen had received a brief summary of how his team had located him from Sam, but now he was being asked to provide official identification to Detective Michael McNeil of the LAPD. The LAPD detectives had found who they suspected to be Katya and the woman who tasered him that morning both executed in a black car still in the yard. She wanted to be close enough to see and hear the bomb go off.

Agreeing to assist, he and Anna followed Detective McNeil as he led them to where Katya's car was parked. The black vehicle stood as a grim reminder of the deadly events that had unfolded. "Agent Callen," Detective McNeil addressed him, gesturing towards the car. "There you go."

Callen approached the driver's side window of the black car and took a deep breath as he looked inside of it. The sight that met his eyes was gruesome. Katya, seated in the passenger seat, bore the signs of execution - her throat and head each marked by a fatal gunshot wound. Blood coated her body, as it did the blonde woman next to her.

Detective McNeil shot him a questioning look. "Is that her?"

With a mix of certainty and ambivalence, Callen made the call. "Positive I.D. That is Katya Miranova. I don't know who the other one is."

Not wanting to linger, he turned away from the rather gruesome scene, his girlfriend following closely behind him.

Detective McNeil called out to him, his voice filled with curiosity. "Agent Callen." Callen turned back to face the LAPD detective. "Any idea who might've done this?"

"Not a clue," he replied. He sensed that the detective harboured some doubts about his answer, though, if the look he received was anything to go by. "Sorry."

In truth, part of him suspected Joelle's involvement, while another part considered Pembrook as a potential culprit. Both of them were in town, both had motives, and both possessed the capability for such actions. However, Callen really didn't view Katya's passing as a significant loss. Whether they were formed under the same hand or not, Katya had become a monster in her own right.

A nagging thought surfaced, causing Callen to wonder what it said about him. As he proved on many an assignment, he could be every bit the cold-blooded killer that Katya was. Yet, his driving force was a genuine desire to help people. He hoped that fact balanced the scales at least somewhat.

As he and Anna resumed their walk to Anna's car, a sense of relief mingled with their shared unease. Callen sought to comfort his shaken girlfriend, intertwining his fingers with hers. "It's over," he reassured her.

Anna let out a sigh, her voice filled with a mix of exhaustion and relief. The day had been draining for them both. "Yeah. It's over."

He tightened his grip on her hand, his love for her evident. "I love you."

She squeezed his hand tighter. "I love you so much."

Callen and Anna walked together towards the cars, a mixture of relief and exhaustion evident on their faces. As they approached, they saw that Kensi, Sam, and Rountree were waiting outside the vehicles, concern etched on their features.

"Hey, guys," Callen greeted them, his voice weary but filled with gratitude.

Kensi stepped forward, a sympathetic smile on her face. "Glad you're okay, Callen" she said, her tone filled with genuine relief.

"Thanks, Kens," Callen replied, his voice tinged with a hint of emotion. He appreciated the support from his team, knowing they had his back through thick and thin.

Sam chimed in, his voice carrying a mixture of concern and reassurance. "Yeah, man. We were worried there for a moment. Glad you're safe."

He nodded, acknowledging Sam's words. "Yeah."

Rountree, ever the eager and supportive younger teammate, added his voice to the mix. "Seriously, man. We're just glad you're alright."

"Thanks, Rountree," he replied, his gratitude evident in his tone.

Kensi then spoke up, her gaze shifting between Callen and Anna. "You know what? Why don't Sam, Rountree, and I head back to OSP? You two could probably use a little privacy."

He considered Kensi's suggestion for a moment, realizing the truth in her words. He turned to Anna, his eyes searching hers for confirmation. She nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips.

"Yeah," Callen agreed, grateful for the opportunity to have a moment alone with his girlfriend after everything. "Thanks, Kens."

With that, Callen took the driver's seat of the far car, Anna settling into the passenger side. The drive back to OSP was filled with a mix of silence and unspoken emotions, both of them processing the events that had unfolded.

As they arrived at OSP, the familiar surroundings provided a sense of comfort. The rest of the team had already gathered, cleaning and putting away their gear.

Callen and Anna joined the group, offering a brief nod of acknowledgement. They went about their respective tasks, Anna diligently cleaning her service weapon and stowing away her gear while Callen took a moment to collect himself.

Sam took a moment to assess the situation. He could see the weight of the recent events still weighing heavily on Callen, who'd always been known for his stoic nature. Understanding the need for some privacy and space, Sam spoke to both to Kensi and Rountree.

"Hey, guys," Sam said, his voice calm yet firm. "I think it's best if we give G a little more space right now."

Kensi looked at Sam, concern etched on her face. "Yeah, you're probably right. He's been through a lot. Not just today, but in general. This year, these last couple of years, have been rough for him."

Rountree nodded in agreement. "Definitely, man. He could use some time to process everything." The younger man sighed. "One hell of a day, huh?"

Sam continued, his tone reassuring. "That's one word for it. Let's finish putting away our gear and head out. I'll remind G we're here for him if he needs anything but trust me, pushing too hard'll get you no where with him."

Kensi and Rountree understood the importance of respecting Callen's stoic nature and the need for solitude. They quickly gathered their belongings and quietly made their way towards the exit, leaving Callen and Anna alone in the room.

Once the team had left, Callen and Anna found themselves in the quiet space, allowing the weight of the day's events to settle. They exchanged a knowing glance, finding solace in the understanding they shared.

As they took a moment to breathe, Callen reached out and took Anna's hand in his, his grip firm yet gentle. "Spasibo." (Thanks.)

She returned the grip, her eyes filled with unwavering support. "Vsegda." (Always.)

Chapter 16: Come Together

Anna sat in the cozy window nook just off the kitchen, enjoying the view of the front yard. Meanwhile, Callen, clad in black sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and his new grey and blue sweater, poured himself a cup of coffee. With the steaming mug in hand, he joined her in the snug had taken the last couple of days off work at Nate's suggestion, allowing him some breathing room and quality time with Anna. Nate had shown up at their house, asking Callen if he had a couple of minutes to chat, and Callen had decided to open up to the man, at least to some extent.

It felt strange not having to constantly look over their shoulders any more, especially after the constant threat of Katya had loomed over them for so long. It had mostly been just the two of them, although Alex and Jake had joined them for dinner the night before. Alex seemed to have moved past how things had gone with their father, at least to a large extent. They might never be overly close, but he was grateful for any progress. And Jake, the bright ten-year-old, as always, was rather forgiving of his not-so-occasional uncertainty when it came to children.

Callen was aware that he sometimes came across as slightly inept when it came to interacting with kids. Unfortunately, not really having much of a childhood left him without much of a frame of reference. With Aiden and Kamran, he had always had Michelle or Sam as a buffer, and Aiden would usually just suggest what he wanted to do. Meanwhile, Jake's current interest was playing Fortnite with his friends, a video game that he was not all that familiar with outside of the fact that it was a shooting game.

"Hey," Anna chuckled softly as he sat down beside her. "Do we ever have to leave?"

Callen glanced at her, a playful smile on his face. "Well, considering it's a short-term rental... eventually, yes."

"Mmm..." Anna studied him, her eyes brimming with a mix of warmth and concern. "Callen, I could've killed you by triggering that bomb."

"Yeah," he replied, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. So many things could have gone terribly wrong. He had no interest in playing the game of 'What If?' but it was clear that Anna was still shaken up by what had happened.

"We've been through so much together, and..." Anna sighed, a touch of frustration in her voice. "...and I woke up this morning knowing exactly what I want."

Curiosity piqued, he leaned in slightly. "And what is it?"

"I want to be normal," Anna confessed, her voice filled with longing. "I want to go to work, come home, cook dinner, watch TV... I want to be normal with you."

Anna's confession resonated deeply with him, stirring up his own insecurities and inner turmoil. He'd always felt broken, even telling Sam a few years back now that he had no idea what kind of relationship he was even capable of having, grappling with the fear that his demons would limit his ability to provide the normalcy and stability that Anna had evidently wanted for a while.

He had spent years avoiding emotional intimacy, hiding behind various jobs in law enforcement, seeking distractions to avoid having to face what had been done to him growing up. Yet, in spite of his doubts, Callen was determined to try. He really wanted to make it work with Anna. To give her everything she wanted.

As they shared a brief kiss, Callen's mind raced, searching for the right words to express his fears and determination. "Anna, I..."

Before Callen could finish his sentence, a knocking sound drew their attention to the window. They turned to find Arkady standing outside, pointing at the still-locked front door. "Anna. Anna, idi syuda." (Come.)

Anna sighed, knowing her father had a knack for impeccable timing, and stood up. Callen muttered Arkady's name softly and followed his girlfriend to the front door, prepared for whatever interruption was about to take place. What’s Arkady doing here so early? It's like 0730. 

The moment the door swung open, Arkady's relief was palpable. "Oh, Anna!" A wide smile creased his face, and without hesitation, he pulled Anna into a tight embrace, spinning his grown daughter around in a show of pure joy. "Ya tak rada, chto ty v bezopasnosti i v poryadke." (I'm so happy you're safe and okay.)

"Arkady," Callen greeted, acknowledging the older man.

"Yeah," Arkady said dismissively before turning his attention back to Anna, a father's concern etched on his face. "Ya prishel, kak tol'ko uvidel tvoyo soobshcheniye." (I came as soon as I saw your text.)

With a playful hint of reproach, Anna refused to back down and remarked, "Ya napisala tebe soobshcheniye tri dnya nazad." (I texted you three days ago.)

Arkady looked at her and nodded, maintaining his usual straightforward demeanour. The older man then turned to him as he replied, "Well, I was occupied with beautiful, voluptuous..."

Recognizing the direction Arkady's words were taking, he shot his girlfriend a pleading look, silently asking her to make her father stop.

Anna, in turn, shot Arkady a pointed look. "No, no, we're good on the mental image," she interjected, her tone laced with a mix of amusement and slight exasperation. "But thank you for coming."

Arkady nodded, his characteristic bluntness tempered by a touch of mischief. "Da. And I brought some nastoyka for a celebratory drink."

"Well, that's about par for the course," he commented, his gaze lingering on Arkady's choice of beverage, which essentially amounted to flavoured vodka.

Arkady's attention then shifted to him, his expression revealing a blend of gratitude, affection, and a touch of awkwardness. "And, Callen, I'm glad you're okay also. It is obvious how much my Anna loves you, and I also... Um... Well, I, uh..." The older man stumbled over his words, a meaningful look directed at Callen.

A wide smile spread across Callen's face as he realized Arkady was trying to give his blessing for their marriage. He appreciated the man's discretion on the matter as well. He replied, his voice filled with genuine warmth, "I like you too, Arkady."

Arkady chuckled, the tension dissipating as he embraced the moment of shared joy. "Ah, let us drink to that. Nastoyka for everyone."

Callen's grin widened, his heart filled with a sense of belonging as he followed the pair to the kitchen.

They gathered around the kitchen island, glasses in hand, to toast to the fact that they still could and their shared happiness. Standing there with the two Kolchecks, Callen couldn't help but feel a sense of hope and contentment.

About twenty minutes later, Callen's cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pants pocket and saw Admiral Kilbride's name flashing on the screen. He quickly answered the call, knowing that if he was reaching out that it was something important.

"Admiral," he greeted, his tone focused and ready.

"Agent Callen, I need you and your partner at the Boatshed immediately. We have a situation," the man's voice came over the line, his words carrying a sense of urgency.

Curiosity piqued, he asked, "What's going on, Admiral?"

"Somebody just robbed a casino using military-grade weapons," Kilbride informed him. "LAPD CSU found dozens of spent 7.62 NATO shell casings. There was also a Vietnam Army vet at the casino who swore to the LAPD that what he heard was an M60."

"An M60?" he reiterated, a little surprised. "Robbing a casino in L.A.?"

"They also blew up a car with a grenade," the Admiral said. "The bomb squad found an undetonated one next to the car. Presumably used to blow up the car as the guards were near it while open-firing on the UTV."

"Did the guards survive?" he inquired.

"As of ten minutes ago they are sedated and recovering at Los Angeles General," the Admiral said matter-of-factly.

"This goes beyond a simple robbery," he commented.

"Indeed," the Admiral agreed. "Considering the ammo involved, SecNav wants you and your team on this immediately. Secretary Flynn wants to make sure that the munition isn't stollen military property."

Callen paused, fully aware of the potential consequences if that was what was going on. They needed to close any breach, quickly. "Understood, sir. What's our play?"

"I have a witness being escorted to the Boatshed," Kilbride replied. "She was present at the casino during the heist and may have valuable information about those behind this. I need you and Agent Hanna to interview her as soon as possible. I will be having Agents Deeks and Blye go talk to a contact of mine while you do that."

"Of course, Admiral. Sam and I'll head in immediately," Callen affirmed, focused and ready to tackle this latest case head-on.

"Good. Time is of the essence, Agent Callen. Find out who's responsible and put an end to this before it escalates any further," Kilbride emphasized before ending the call.

Taking a brief moment to gather his thoughts, Callen dialled Sam's number, telling his partner that he'd swing by to pick him up on the way to work. He then quickly threw on some more work-appropriate clothes. So much for having a day off.

Chapter 17: Koreatown

Driving to pick up Sam, Callen got a call from Kensi who was bursting at the seams after a phone call she'd just received. After they had jumped through sufficient hoops, she and Deeks were approved to become foster parents to Rosa.

He was thrilled for Rosa and the pair. Foster care was hard and given how she'd ended up in the United States, it was a rather rough situation. She'd managed to land what he had no doubt was going to be an amazing home for her though.

Arriving at the Boatshed, Callen and Sam found themselves with a couple of minutes before Agent Castor arrived with the witness they were supposed to interview. The atmosphere was relaxed as they actually messaged back and forth with the rest of the team about planning a party for Kensi, Deeks, and Rosa.

Finally, Agent Castor walked in, accompanied by a brunette woman who immediately caught their attention. She stepped into the room, her eyes darting nervously as she took in her surroundings. Castor quickly introduced her to them both. "Hey, guys. This is Amanda Chen."

He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Thanks, Castor."

His partner gestured towards one of the chairs, inviting the clearly frazzled woman to have a seat. "Amanda, please take a seat."

"Thanks for coming in to speak with us," Callen said, his tone friendly yet professional, attempting to put Amanda at ease.

Amanda let out a nervous chuckle, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness. "I have to be honest," she said, her eyes scanning the room, "this place has got a touch of that serial killer vibe. A little weird."

He sat down across from her, while his partner remained standing by his side.

"We'll take that into consideration when we redecorate, alright?" Sam responded, his tone light-hearted, hoping to alleviate some of Amanda's apprehension.

She chuckled softly, momentarily easing the tension in the room.

Sam shifted his focus back to the purpose of their meeting, his tone becoming more serious. "Can you tell us what you saw this morning? We weren't able to get any surveillance footage. The shooters took out the cameras."

Amanda nodded, her brows furrowing as she recalled the events. "There weren't any shooters there," she said, her voice filled with conviction. "It was that thing... It was like... some kind of souped-up armoured golf cart."

"And no one was driving it?" he inquired.

"No," she confirmed, her voice steady. "It was remote-controlled or something."

"Like a drone, or..." Sam asked, urging Amanda to provide further details.

"I guess," she replied, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "It was just like one of those remote-controlled toys my brother used to have as a kid, just the life-sized version."

"And it fired a large-calibre automatic weapon?" he pressed.

"Yeah, a big machine gun!" she confirmed. "And what was weird was that it spoke with this robotic voice. It told the guards to bring it the money."

"So, what did it do after it got the money?" he inquired.

"There was this explosion," Amanda explained. "As I was running away, I saw it take off south down Vermont."

"That's good information," his partner said. "Thank you, Amanda."

With a mix of relief and concern, Amanda mustered a small smile. "I hope it helps you catch whoever did this."

"We'll do our best," he assured her, his voice filled with resolve.

About five minutes later, he and Sam were video chatting with Fatima and Rountree, back at the OSP. Callen was sitting on the back corner of the black table, his posture relaxed but focused, while Sam stood.

The Operations Centre was abuzz with activity, the agents from one of the other OSP teams clearly discussing their own case - they were following up on a drug incident with a Marine from what Callen could gather.

Rountree, his eyes fixed on the computer screen, spoke with a hint of frustration, "We checked all the rental trucks around the casino at the time of the robbery, and there's nothing out of the ordinary about the renters. I mean, no criminal history, nothing."

Fatima, her fingers swiftly typing away on her tablet, chimed in. "And I'm looking into the privately owned trucks now, but there are a lot and most of them are owned through corporations, so it's slow going."

"Got it!" Sam said. "Keep us posted."

"Will do," Fatima assured them before ending the video call.

Callen turned to Sam, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated the implications. If I'm right, we may have just found a way in. "This drone UTV, it's big and it's loaded with weaponry. Now, whoever's behind this, they're not gonna take chances transporting it around."

"Yeah," Sam readily agreed. "Why risk stealing a truck or even renting one?"

"Yeah," he said. "They hire a pro. Somebody who specializes in moving illegal things around the city. We know someone that lives in that world."

A flicker of recognition crossed his partner's features. "Yes, we do."

Their conversation hung in the air for a moment as the team absorbed the gravity of the situation. In that instant, they understood the urgency to track down this specialist and intercept the dangerous weapon before it fell into the wrong hands.

With renewed focus, he and Sam headed out to the car, intending to track down Sang, part of a Korean gang that Sam's alias Switch had clashed with before.

Arriving at the location, Callen stood casually near the passenger side door of the car, his demeanour relaxed but alert. He blended seamlessly into the surroundings, appearing as if he were simply an observer in the area.

Meanwhile, Sam took a strategic position, skillfully hiding himself around the back of the car. He pressed his back against the vehicle's sleek exterior, his presence concealed from their mark, Sang, who was still inside the building.

Callen's eyes scanned the surroundings, taking note of any potential threats or signs of movement. He remained focused, ready to act in an instant if the situation called for it. The sounds of dogs barking in the distance added to the atmosphere of suspense, heightening their awareness.

Finally, Sang emerged from the building, his eyes immediately falling upon Callen. Caution and curiosity clouded his expression as he approached, unaware of Sam's hidden presence just a few steps away. "You lost, man?"

Callen maintained his casual demeanour, shrugging his shoulders lightly. "No, I'm just taking in the sights of Koreatown. Say, where do you get the best kalbi around here?"

Sang's gaze narrowed, his suspicion growing. He clearly suspected that Callen might not be as harmless as he appeared. "I don't know who you are, but you need to move on or -" He instinctively for his concealed weapon. "- something'll happen to you."

Before the man could make good on his threat, Sam swiftly emerged from his hidden position around the back of the car, closing the distance between himself and Sang in an instant. He skillfully disarmed Sang, seizing control of the situation.

Sang's confidence wavered as he realized the identity of the man standing before him. The gravity of the encounter sank in and the man backed down.

"We don't have time for this," Sam stated firmly. "I'll take this."

Sang turned around to face Sam directly, a mix of anger and frustration etched on his face. "Damn you, Switch," he spat, acknowledging Sam's undercover alias.

Maintaining his calm and composed demeanour, Sam locked eyes with Sang. "Yeah, Switch," he affirmed, the underlying determination in his voice undeterred.

With the situation momentarily defused, Sam swiftly shifted gears, getting down to business. He explained to Sang the reason for their presence, that they were after a remote-controlled UTV.

Sang, still defiant, denied any involvement or knowledge of the UTV. He attempted to distance himself from the situation and voiced his resentment toward Sam. "Look, I don't know anything about some remote-controlled UTV," Sang claimed, his voice laced with bitterness. "No one came to me to move it around the city. And, you know what, Switch? Screw you. You stole from us."

Sam maintained his cool, using his quick wit to defuse the tension. "Look at it as more of a redistribution plan instead of stealing," he retorted, a hint of slyness in his voice. "Know what I mean?"

Sang's frustration grew, his anger boiling to the surface. "I used to like you, Switch. You suck now!"

Sam responded with deadpan humour, his sarcasm evident. "Yeah, I'm heartbroken," he replied dryly, unfazed by Sang's resentment.

Knowing that time was of the essence, Callen shifted the conversation back to their objective. They needed information, and they needed it now. "Okay," he pressed, his voice firm. "So, if you didn't transport the UTV, who'd they go to?"

Sang, still seething with anger, couldn't resist taking a dig at Callen. "Who's this guy? You make so much coin now, you travel with your accountant?"

Playing along with the improvisation, Callen stepped forward, adopting the persona of his own long-time alias. "I'm Mr. Carl," he replied smoothly. "I'm his life coach."

Sang was taken aback, his confusion evident. "His what the hell?"

Undeterred by the banter, Sam refocused their attention on the task at hand. "I need that utility vehicle," Sam asserted, his voice unwavering. "And you're gonna help us find out how they're rolling it around the city."

Sang's defiance lingered, and he responded with hostility. "If you were hanging off the side of a building, I wouldn't help you!"

His partner shifted his stance, his gaze unwavering. "Hmm," Sam said, his voice calm and measured. "Normandie, Catalina, 6th Street."

Sang furrowed his brow. "What's that?"

Sam eyed their mark. "Streets you have garages on," he replied, his voice tinged with a touch of smugness. "It's probably where you'd stash your clients' merch, right? You help us now, or we tax them all today."

Sang sucked his teeth in frustration, his face contorting into a scowl before he reluctantly answered. "They'd be moving it in a fourteen-foot truck with dummy out-of-state plates," he grumbled, his words dripping with irritation. "I'll give you a name, then we're good."

Sam's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Sang, his expression growing more intense. "No, no, no," he retorted firmly, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice. "I'm on a clock, alright? You're gonna take us to the name, right now."

Sang hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. "Fine, follow me," he grumbled.

With Sang reluctantly leading the way, he and Sam trailed closely behind, their senses sharp, knowing they had to keep their heads on a swivel.

Navigating through the streets of Koreatown, the trio weaved through the hustle and bustle of the city, the weight of the investigation hanging in the air.

Sang pointed. "My man Pelican's spot is right up there, behind that fence."

"Why do they call him Pelican?" he asked.

"How should I know, man?" Sang replied. The man then turned to Sam and switched to Korean. "Neone namjaga jjajeungna." (Your man's annoying.)

"Iksukhaejyeosseo," Sam replied, making the switch to Korean as well. (I've gotten used to it.)

"Geurigo geu namjahante syoping gaya dwaeya," Sang said. "Jeo saram, os-i eomcheong isanghage iphyeojyeo iss-eo. Gyeongchalina hoe-gyesa cheoreom mwo geureon neukkim-iya." (And you need to take him shopping. He's dressed crazy, like a cop or accountant or something.)

"What'd he say?" he inquired, deciding to play dumb. It had its advantages. He didn’t speak Korean that well but enough to catch the gist of what was being said. Sam, however, was a lot more comfortable with the language.

"I think he wants to hire you to be his personal life coach," Sam replied in jest.

"Oh, good," Callen quipped. "He could use it."

Finally, they arrived outside the imposing building, its sleek exterior towering above them. Sang started waving at the security camera.

"Yo, Pelican!" Sang yelled into the speaker, breaking the silence. "It's me. Got a couple friends with me."

Pelican's response crackled over the speaker, terse and firm. "Just you."

Sang looked at Sam for his reaction, clearly trying to ascertain if there was going to be an issue with the request or not.

Sam nodded. "Okay. Go."

As Sang disappeared into the building, he and Sam made their way back to their car. They leaned against it, engaged in quiet conversation, their voices blending with the sounds of the bustling city streets.

Callen's gaze turned distant, his mind grappling with unanswered questions. "It still doesn't explain where Pembrook is or why," he mused, frustration creeping into his voice.

"Don't do that," Sam interjected, his voice firm yet compassionate.

Confused, Callen asked, "What?"

Sam's expression softened, a mixture of empathy and admonishment in his eyes. "Come on, man," he said, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation. "You know how you get. Things start going good. You start focusing on the next thing and push people away."

Realizing the truth in Sam's words, Callen shifted his gaze, attempting to redirect the conversation away from himself. "Oh. You're taking a creative writing course on Masterclass again?"

Sam eyed him, a small smile playing on his lips. "Anna's good for you, G."

He nodded, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. "I know she is."

The gate creaked open, and Sang safely walked off of the property. He and Sam both stood up, ready for action.

"Man, you owe me, Switch!" Sang exclaimed. "Pelican didn't want to talk, and I was like, 'You know who I am? You know the business I do? I could cut you out of every deal in this town.'"

Sam, eager to refocus on the task at hand, cut to the chase. "Who rented his truck to transport the UTV?" he inquired, his tone businesslike.

"Guy's name is Lou Faria," Sang replied.

"Nice work," Callen chimed in, acknowledging Sang's contribution.

Sang wasn't done yet, a glint of triumph in his eyes. "That's not all," he continued, holding out an item in his hand. "Pelican tracks all of his vehicles." With a smirk, he added, "Gave me the transponder."

Sam reached out and accepted the item. "Oh. You the man, Sang."

Callen hummed in agreement, appreciating the breakthrough. Sang scoffed, a hint of frustration seeping into his sigh.

As he and Sam turned around, making their way back into their vehicle, Sang trailed close behind, his steps directed towards the vehicle as well.

"Nah, nah, nah. We good!" Sam's voice carried a hint of dismissiveness, his stance leaning casually against the car. "You can bounce."

Sang scoffed, his frustration palpable. "Funny. Take me back to my place," he said, a mix of annoyance and resignation colouring his words.

Sam's eyes narrowed, a touch of defiance present in his gaze. "You see me smiling?" he retorted, his voice laced with a subtle edge of amusement.

"Oh, come on, Switch!" Sang's protest emerged laden with a blend of exasperation and resignation. "What am I supposed to do way out here?"

"Sounds like a you problem," Sam retorted coldly.

"Screw you, Switch!" Sang shot back, the words dripping with disdain. Resigned, the man turned around to presumably try and get a ride from someone else.

Without missing a beat, Sam turned on the car's engine, signalling their departure.

Callen leaned out the open passenger side door, smiling as he spoke to Sang. "Hey. If you need a life coach, Switch knows how to reach me." With that, Callen closed the passenger-side door and Sam smoothly drove off.

Chapter 18: Our Normal

Working with an arms dealer who ran a cake shop of all things sure made for some interesting moments for Kensi and Deeks.

Nina Barnes wasted no time tapping into her old contacts to dig up the buyers' names. And get this, she even hit it off with Kensi and Deeks when she found out they were about to foster a child, revealing that she'd been a foster child herself, with less than stellar luck with it came to her foster placements.

According to her intel, the grenade launcher used in the robbery was a Milkor Y2 grenade launcher smuggled into the country by some Germans. But get this, it wasn't a straight-up sale. No, it was traded for an unarmed UTV drone by a couple of engineering dudes named Jacob Griffiths and Gordon Cassella. They were both engineers with the technical know-how to build the drone UTVs.

He and Sam had just been briefed on route to OSP when Kensi and Deeks - who had been sent to the warehouse in Lomita their suspects had rented - used their comms to tell them that they'd just found Jacob Griffiths' body.

Fatima spoke over their comms again. "Callen, Sam, Faria's headed east towards downtown. I just sent his location to you."

"Copy that," Sam replied. "We're close to downtown."

Several minutes later, Callen pointed at a truck. "That's Faria, in the truck."

Tires screeched as Sam did an offensive maneuver to block their suspect in. Doors swung open in unison, the metallic click of weapons being drawn filling the air. Callen and Sam stepped out onto the pavement, their training evident in their composed yet determined stances.

"Federal agents!" Sam announced.

"Hands on the steering wheel, Faria!" he demanded firmly.

"Don't do anything stupid," Sam said as the man looked to be reaching for something, probably some gun he had stashed away. "Don't do it!" Sam's voice carried a warning, laced with a mix of caution and authority, urging Faria to make the right choice. Tension hung in the air like a taut wire. "Don't do it!"

Unfortunately, a gun came into view and the scene erupted in a split second. Sam's finger squeezed his trigger, the sound of a gunshot reverberating through the narrow street as Faria was killed. Meanwhile, Callen started making his way over to the truck. They possibly had a hostage in the truck if what had happened to Jacob Griffiths was any indication.

While his partner opened the driver's side door and secured Faria's gun, Callen opened the back of the truck, hearing muffled grunting before it was even open all the way.

Callen wasn't overly surprised to see their suspect-turned-hostage tied up to the UTV drone with duct tape covering his mouth. "I've got Gordon Cassella and the armed UTV drone," he informed his partner. Hopping into the back of the truck, he scanned the limited contents. "And the UTV's remote control."

With a toss, he passed the UTV drone's remote control to his partner before focusing on freeing Gordon Cassella from his restraints. He then set to work carefully untying the captive engineer and assessing for any obvious injuries.

After booking the man, they headed back to OSP to deal with their gear and get the wheels in motion for Deeks and Kensi's surprise.

Time ticked away, and the clock struck half past five. The party set up on the beach just outside of the Boatshed was in full swing, anticipation filling the air. Suddenly, Fatima's excited exclamation cut through the bustling atmosphere, drawing everyone's attention. "They're here!"

In unison, they rose from their seats and approached the new family. Callen's smile widened as he greeted Rosa, embracing the warmth of the moment. The rest of the team gathered around, extending their heartfelt welcome to Rosa, embracing her as a cherished member of their tight-knit work family. Laughter and conversation flowed freely over dinner, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie and genuine connection, all work stresses forgotten.

Amidst the joyful commotion, Callen spotted Rosa near the shoreline, her feet buried in the soft sand. He approached the sixteen-year-old with a friendly smile, his eyes twinkling with genuine interest. Rosa really was a sweet kid.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked warmly.

Rosa turned toward him, a wide grin illuminating her face. "Definitely beats the view from the city. I love it here," she replied, her eyes sparkling with delight. "It looks beautiful."

He nodded, his gaze drifting toward the vast expanse of the ocean. "There's something calming about the water. It's like it washes away all the noise, even if just for a moment."

Rosa followed his gaze, her gaze transfixed on the rhythmic waves. "I can see why you like it here. It's peaceful," she remarked, a sense of tranquility seeping into her words.

He nodded. "Peaceful wasn't always part of my life. Growing up, things were chaotic. But places like this gave me a chance to breathe, to dream."

Intrigued, Rosa tilted her head, her eyes brimming with curiosity. "Were you in foster care too?"

Callen nodded, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his eyes. "Yeah, I was. It hasn't been easy, but along the way, I met people who made a difference in my life." His thoughts flickered to Sam in particular. Anna as well. "People who believed in me when I couldn't even believe in myself."

Rosa's gaze softened at his words and she nodded. "I'm glad you found them. And I'm glad that Kensi and Deeks found me."

Callen reached out, gently placing a hand on Rosa's shoulder. "You're in good hands, Rosa!" he assured the sixteen-year-old. "They're great people. And if you ever need someone to talk to or just listen, you know where to find me."

Rosa smiled, a newfound sense of belonging washing over her. "Thank you, Callen. That means a lot."

They shared a brief, heartfelt moment before being interrupted by a burst of laughter from the party. Rosa looked around, her eyes lighting up. "I guess it's time to celebrate, huh?"

Callen chuckled, gesturing toward the lively gathering. "Absolutely. Let's join the fun. Welcome to the family, Rosa."

As they all settled in, the group dispersed somewhat, enjoying the company and engaging in various discussions. Going to grab another beer for himself and Sam, Callen observed with a mix of surprise and delight that Admiral Kilbride was comfortably conversing with Raymond and Arkady. The three seemingly disparate personalities had somehow managed to find some sort of common ground.

Further away, Fatima, Rosa, Rountree, and Deeks gathered in a circle, their animated conversation filling the air with excitement. Fatima's eyes sparkled as she recounted a funny anecdote, her gestures adding emphasis to her words. Rosa was leaning forward, captivated by the story, her laughter mingling with the others. Rountree playfully nudged Deeks, teasing him about one of his jokes, prompting a round of chuckles.

Meanwhile, Kensi and Anna were indulging in a game of Cornhole, the pair visibly relaxed and enjoying themselves. A grin spread across Kensi's face as the bean bag hit the board with a satisfying thud, sliding smoothly into the centre hole.

"Nice shot, Kensi!" Anna said, genuinely impressed by the throw.

Kensi turned towards Anna, her own smile widening. She raised her hand in a mock salute, teasingly accepting the praise. "Thank you, thank you," she replied, her tone lighthearted and playful.

With a contented smile gracing his lips, Callen made his way back to the small, dark wood pop-up beach table they had set up, passing his partner one of the chilled bottles. The amber liquid within sparkled under the warm glow of the setting sun.

"My man," Sam said, his deep voice laced with camaraderie, as he accepted the offered beer.

He let out a satisfied groan as he settled into the foldable chair across from Sam, his weight causing the legs to sink slightly into the soft distant silhouette of Los Angeles Harbour loomed on the outskirts, its sprawling docks and vessels providing a backdrop to their moment of respite. "Crazy few months, partner." With a practiced motion, he brought the bottle to his lips, taking a long swig of the cool, crisp brew.

"Whew. Real crazy," Sam said, his voice tinged with a mix of exhaustion and triumph, as if reflecting on the whirlwind of events.

He gave a low hum, the weight of their recent experiences settling within his thoughts.

"Katya and... that whole deepfake thing are dead," Sam stated matter-of-factly, his voice carrying a sense of finality and relief.

"Yeah, I'm not gonna miss that whole deepfake thing," he admitted, his tone tinged with a mixture of relief and wry humour.

"Not at all," Sam readily agreed.

"Kensi and Deeks are parents," he chuckled, a genuine warmth seeping into his laughter. He was so happy for them and Rosa. "You're living with your dad."

"Yeah, didn't see that coming," Sam remarked, his voice tinged with humour.

Callen hummed softly, his gaze drifting toward Raymond, who had managed to capture Sam's attention with an animated gesture. Sam raised his bottle in a cheerful salute, acknowledging Raymond's presence with a nod of camaraderie.

Sam's expression turned slightly more serious as the laughter faded. "You think you'll ever speak to Hetty again?"

It took him a minute but then Callen started to nod. He needed to talk to her, to hear her side of the story. He felt used and hurt but part of him desperately needed to get some answers. Did she know about Pembrook's methods? Why did she enrol me in the program in the first place? Why wasn't she honest with me when I first asked? Why didn't she say anything when she realized I'd forgotten? "I need to talk to her."

"Definitely," Sam agreed, his voice resonating with support and understanding. He raised his bottle again, a silent gesture of solidarity, before taking a long swig of his beer.

As Callen's gaze shifted to Anna, the woman stood at the Cornhorn game, her eyes focused and determined, the sound of the bean bags hitting the wooden board filling the air with a sense of competition. The beach's gentle breeze tousled her hair, adding a touch of playfulness to her concentrated expression.

Sam followed his line of sight and, sensing his thoughts, used his thumb to point over his shoulder at her. "She's always been good for you," he affirmed, his voice carrying a note of approval and understanding.

He nodded, his eyes lingering on Anna's figure. In that fleeting moment, a surge of emotions surged within him – gratitude, love, and a profound sense of belonging. Anna had stood by his side through every trial and tribulation, offering him support and second chances when he needed them the most. She made him feel safe and secure in a world that often seemed chaotic and unpredictable. She was his home. "Yes, she has."

Sam raised his beer, a silent invitation to join in a toast, and Callen reciprocated the gesture. As they raised their bottles, the clinking sound echoing through the air, his thoughts briefly shifted to Hetty and the conversations that awaited them. But amidst the multitude of questions and uncertainties, one thing remained clear: he wanted to shape his future according to his own desires, not someone else's idea of his potential. And he knew, without a shred of doubt that he wanted Anna by his side through it all.

As he made his way back towards the shore, the gentle laughter and quiet chatter of their little party filled the air. It had been around forty minutes since his conversation with his partner, and the sun was casting a warm, golden glow as it started to set on the horizon. He had gone to fetch Anna's thick, grey wool cardigan, now draped over his arm.

Approaching his girlfriend from behind, he smiled and wrapped the cardigan around her. "Thank you," she said, her eyes filled with appreciation, the soft fabric embracing her figure.

He glanced at her, a mixture of love and contemplation shining in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.

"In every aspect of my life," he began, his voice filled with sincerity, "I didn't know who I was until I met you."

A playful teasing danced in her voice as she replied, "You didn't even know your first name."

His expression turned serious, his gaze searching for the right words to convey his thoughts. He wanted to do this but felt a little out of his element.

Concern flickered in her eyes as she inquired, "What's wrong?"

He briefly averted his gaze, taking a deep breath before meeting her eyes again, determined to do this. Giving a nod to their conversation earlier that morning, he began, "I don't know that I can give you the... normal life that you're looking for."

Confusion and worry tinged her voice as she pressed, "What are you saying, Callen?"

His gaze shifted to the ground for a moment before he looked up at her, his eyes brimming with vulnerability. "I'm broken," he admitted, his voice filled with raw honesty. "As far back as I can remember, I-I have been. I... I want to give you what you want. I just... I need you to know..."

Anna interjected, her voice filled with reassurance and understanding. "First of all, it's not some kind of a big secret that you're broken, Callen. And guess what? So am I. That's why we fit. Look, other people may never understand our 'normal'… but that doesn't matter. It just has to make sense to us. To you and to me." We can be together in this version of our normal.

A genuine smile tugged at Callen's lips as he said, "I love you."

"I love you so much," she replied, her voice filled with affection.

With a shared understanding, they both leaned in and shared a tender kiss, their connection stronger than ever. In that moment, the world around them seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of them.

Taking a deep breath, he retrieved the engagement ring he had tucked away earlier when they were stowing their gear back at OSP. Gently lowering himself onto the sand on one knee, he looked up at Anna, his eyes shimmering with joy.

Excitement rippled through the gathering as Kensi's excited voice alerted everyone to the scene unfolding by the water. Gasps of surprise mixed with delighted murmurs, but Callen remained focused on the woman before him.

Anna's hand flew to her mouth, a soft giggle escaping her lips, as he opened the box to reveal the engagement ring.

"Anastasia Kolcheck..." he began, his voice filled with love.

Her giggles grew, intermingling with the overwhelming emotions that surged within her. Within them both, if he was honest.

"...will you marry me?" he finally asked, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Her laughter filled the air again, infused with pure happiness. "Of course, I will."

"Yes?" he reiterated, smiling.

"Yes," she said, her voice brimming with affection and certainty.

A rush of relief and elation flooded Callen's being as he slipped the ring onto her finger. Rising from the sand, he pulled her into his arms, their lips meeting in a tender, passionate kiss

He and Anna glanced over at the jubilant group, their eyes filled with gratitude and love, and laughed. The beach had erupted with boisterous laughter and cheers, the sound echoing through the air. Even Arkady, standing a few feet away, couldn't contain his joy as he beamed with happiness and excitement for the couple.

His and Anna's steps were light and their smiles contagious as they made their way towards the gathering, hand in hand. Excited chatter, clapping hands, and heartfelt congratulations enveloped them in a sea of warmth and well-wishes.

"Finally!" Fatima exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement and genuine happiness.

They were swept into a whirlwind of hugs, laughter, and congratulations, surrounded by their chosen family. Sam's voice rang out above the commotion, offering a heartfelt toast to the newly engaged couple, his words carrying the weight of genuine affection and good wishes. "A toast to Callen and Anna. May you dodge all the bullets and have a super-successful life and a beautiful family." With a warm smile, the man extended his beer bottle toward him.

He couldn't contain his grin as he clinked his bottle with Sam's, the sound resonating with a sense of celebration and unity. The cheers of their makeshift family echoed in his ears, filling him with a profound sense of belonging and happiness.

"Thanks, man," he said, his voice laced with gratitude and love, as he held Anna close, looking forward to starting this next chapter in their lives.

Chapter 19: Game of Drones

Callen and Anna sat contentedly on their couch, enjoying the warmth radiating from their morning coffees, their connection stronger than ever. Three days had passed since Callen's proposal on the beach and the living room was being filled with the unmistakable sound of Zemfira's captivating rock melodies, resonating from the speakers, curtsy of Anna who was quite the fan of the artist.

His fiancée took a sip of her coffee, the fragrant aroma wafting through the air, before turning her attention to him. A hint of curiosity laced her voice as she asked, "So, any thoughts on our wedding, Grisha?" Anna had tried out using his first name a few times since the proposal though, her having already decided that she was going to be taking his last name. "My father's been dropping hints and tossing around some ideas."

He raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Arkady? Really?" he replied, a touch of disbelief colouring his words. Does he realize this isn't his wedding? Well, I guess I shouldn't really be surprised.

Anna nodded, a wry smile playing on her face. "Yeah. You know him, always going for the grand gestures and giving his unsolicited opinion."

Callen leaned back on the couch. "Let me guess," he replied, his tone laced with slight amusement. "He wants us to recreate Doctor Zhivago, horses and all?"

Anna laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You know him too well," she said, shaking her head. "That's exactly what the big oaf's thinking."

He leaned forward and eyed his fiancée curiously. "And what about you?" he inquired, genuinely interested in her thoughts on the matter.

Anna took a moment, considering her response. "Well, honestly," she began, her voice adopting a more casual tone. "I appreciate my father's enthusiasm, and part of me wouldn't mind a grand celebration, but I also kinda like the idea of something more intimate and personal."

He reached for his fiancée's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "We have time to figure it out. We'll explore different options and see what we like. The most important thing is that we both enjoy ourselves." And I really wouldn't be opposed to just going to City Hall and eloping.

The blonde leaned closer, their foreheads touching briefly. "I couldn't agree more," she murmured, her voice brimming with sincerity.

After finishing their morning coffees, Callen and Anna went their separate ways. Callen headed towards the door, ready to start his day at the Office of Special Projects, while Anna gathered her gear and headed to the marathon training session she'd committed to with Stacy. They exchanged a quick kiss before parting ways, their excitement still lingering in the air.

As he made his way to the office, Callen couldn't help but feel a mixture of anticipation and nervousness about the wedding planning process. He had always been a man of action, accustomed to tackling dangerous missions and unravelling complex cases. But wedding planning? It was uncharted territory, and he couldn't deny that it made him slightly uneasy. He wasn't quite sure where to begin, but one thing was certain: he wanted to make this day special for Anna.

With a determined focus, he decided to use this quiet moment at work to do some research. He fired up his work computer and logged in. Opening a new tab, he started searching for wedding venues in Los Angeles.

As he scrolled through the search results, a range of options filled his screen - pictures of grand ballrooms, lush gardens, and stunning beachfront locations. Each venue promised a unique experience, a setting that would help them create lasting memories. But at the same time, none quite felt like them.

Lost in his thoughts, his mind wandered to the possibilities. He imagined Anna walking down the aisle, her radiant smile lighting up the room. He pictured those who were most important to them gathered around them, sharing in their joy and celebrating their union. It was a vision that filled him with warmth and happiness.

After some time spent exploring various venues' websites, his attention was pulled from his search, someone else wanting his attention.

As he continued browsing through different venue options, Callen was pulled from his search by the sound of someone clearing their throat. He looked up to find Fatima standing in front of his desk, a friendly smile on her face.

"Hey, what you working on?" Fatima asked.

Callen quickly closed his laptop, realizing he had been caught in the act. He gave Fatima a small smirk. "Nothing important," he replied, trying to downplay his wedding planning efforts.

"You need help?" she asked, her eyes curious.

"With what?" he asked, slightly amused.

"I'm really good at planning things," she said. "Look, I know that some guys can find this sort of thing out of their wheelhouse. You were looking at possible wedding venues, right?"

Callen hesitated for a moment, then decided to take Fatima up on her offer. "Maybe," he said, finally admitting to his intentions.

Fatima's eyes widened with interest as she scanned the screen. "Well, what is Anna thinking?" she inquired, genuinely interested in helping.

He glanced at Fatima, contemplating how much to say. "Uh, she's thinking somewhere between the two of us just going to city hall and fulfilling Arkady's desire of recreating Doctor Zhivago with everyone on horses and real snow."

Fatima chuckled along, clearly entertained by the idea. "Okay. Love. Well, do you have a theme?" she asked, genuinely interested in helping.

"A theme?" he repeated, considering the concept.

Fatima nodded, her face lighting up. "Yeah. Like traditional or whimsical, uh, cosplay, new age, fairy tale?" she suggested, listing off various possibilities.

"Fairy tale?" he reiterated, less than intrigued by the notion.

"Mm-hmm," she said, her voice tinged with excitement. "People come up with some pretty wild things these days. I mean, just think about it. Sam as a troll. Deeks as a pixie. Kilbride as a wizard."

He gasped, deciding to have a little fun with Fatima. I didn't even want to do it when I was asked to for Kamran's birthday when she was younger, let alone do it for my own wedding. That's not happening. "Yeah. Yeah, you know what? I'm gonna run it by them, see what they think."

"Ha!" Fatima replied. "Yeah, please don't."

Internally smirking, he maintained the charade. "No, no, no," he persisted, still playing the role. "Honestly, I don't... It doesn't hurt to ask, right?"

"I know you're kidding," she said, her halfhearted chuckle betraying her concern. "But seriously, please don't."

The lighthearted conversation was abruptly cut short as Shyla, the Admiral's assistant, appeared before them. Shyla's professional demeanour instantly shifted the focus of the room. "Agent Callen," she addressed him directly, the woman's voice carrying a sense of urgency. "Admiral needs you in his office, ASAP. And good morning, Fatima."

Fatima greeted Shyla with a warm smile. "Morning," she replied, her tone cordial, as Callen swiftly rose to his feet and began making his way toward the stairs.

"What's so urgent?" Callen asked, his curiosity piqued as he fell into step beside Shyla.

"I wasn't told," Shyla replied, her tone indicating her own lack of information. "But I believe it has something to do with a communiqué from Syria."

Approaching the office door, Shyla knocked with a firm, decisive motion.

"Enter!" Kilbride's voice boomed from inside.

Shyla opened the door, allowing him to walk in behind her. The Admiral sat behind the large desk, his expression serious and focused.

"You wanted to see me, Admiral?" he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of concern and readiness.

The Admiral swiftly turned his attention to Shyla. "Hold my calls, have the Commander patched through here," he commanded, his voice authoritative.

Shyla nodded respectfully. "Sir," she acknowledged, before closing the door behind her and heading down the hall toward the Operations Centre.

A couple minutes later, a small plasma screen in the office flickered to life, displaying the image of a female Commander clad in her utility uniform.

"Commander Neal," the Admiral greeted her, his tone steady and composed. "Thank you for your patience. I'm here now with Special Agent Grigori or Grisha Callen. Can you tell him, please, what your squad found?"

"Yes, sir!" the Commander said with crisp efficiency. "We were doing some joint recon work alongside the Syrian Democratic Forces when we came across an abandoned school that we had been using as a shared safe house. It showed signs of an ambush, and human remains of several individuals were found inside. They were burned beyond recognition, but one of the bodies had documents identifying them as an American female named Trudy Chambers."

The Admiral's gaze shifted, his concern for Callen's mental health being evident in his eyes by the way he discreetly assessed him.

His heart sank as he heard the name. That was an alias that Hetty had used in the past. Memories and emotions flooded his mind as he processed the information. The thought that Hetty might be gone, that he might never have the chance to confront her and find the answers he sought about her involvement in Drona, was difficult to accept. The memories of their past interactions also flooded his mind, reminding him of the mentorship, guidance, and unconventional care she had shown him over the years. He cared for her despite everything and yet he'd screamed at her the last time they'd talked. She can't be gone, can she? "The Trudy we know is a small woman," he interjected, hoping against hope that there was some sort of mistake. "Do the remains that you recovered reflect that?"

"I'm afraid so, sir." The Commander's voice was solemn as she confirmed that. "We're still waiting on dental and DNA confirmation for a positive identification."

Callen felt the air leave his lungs, the weight of the news pressing down on him. He fought to maintain his composure, his emotions swirling beneath the surface.

"Thank you, Commander," the Admiral acknowledged, his voice filled with gratitude. "Please reach out the moment you do."

The Commander nodded curtly. "Aye, aye, sir."

As the video call ended, Callen took a deep breath, trying to compose himself amidst the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "Well, you obviously know that Trudy Chambers is one of Hetty's aliases," he stated, his voice tinged with sadness and a hint of disbelief. She can't be gone.

The gravity of the situation was palpable in the room, and the Admiral's focus shifted entirely to him. "Yes," he replied gravely, his steady gaze reflecting the seriousness of the matter. "Yes, I do."

The Admiral granted him a brief moment, sensing the weight of his emotions. His ingrained training urged him to regain control, to suppress his feelings. But this time, the battle was too personal, too overwhelming. Grief, anger, and disbelief clashed with his emotional detachment, threatening to consume him. Callen struggled for words, seeking support by leaning forward and gripping the chair's edge. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice steady despite the underlying turmoil. "Are her remains being flown back?" he inquired.

"They will be," the Admiral confirmed, his tone matching the gravity of the situation. "If they're positively identified."

"I'd like to accompany them," he stated, his desire to be there evident in his voice. If it was indeed her, he felt a need to be present, to pay his respects and find closure, especially after how they'd left things the last time they spoke.

"Understood," the Admiral replied, acknowledging his request with a curt nod.

"You know," Callen began, his voice filled with a mixture of sadness and concern. "She was with another American."

"Harris Keane," the Admiral interjected, fully aware of the situation.

"Any sign of him?" Callen inquired, hoping for any information that could shed light on the circumstances.

"Not yet," the Admiral admitted. "But we'll have a clearer picture once the forensics team completes their analysis."

"If she was ambushed in a safe house," he mused aloud, his mind working through the possibilities. "Someone sold her out. Even if it's not her, she's still in danger."

The Admiral's response carried a hint of resignation. "She was in danger the moment she returned," he stated, emphasizing the risks involved in the operation. "And there's no such thing as a safe house in Syria these days. But then again, this is Hetty we're talking about. She's got more lives than a barn cat, and Lord knows she's just as mean."

At that remark, he fell silent again, absorbing the weight of the situation. His emotions churned inside him, threatening to overflow. But he knew what he had to do. Taking a deep breath, Callen erected a wall and shut off his feelings, internalizing the mantra he'd learned as a child: "Don't feel, feelings cause pain."

Thanking the Admiral and excusing himself, he stepped away, his outward demeanour composed and detached. The turmoil within him was now locked away, hidden behind a facade of stoicism. As he made his way to the Operations Centre, his mind focused solely on the job ahead, effectively shutting off his emotions, his thoughts sealed away in the depths of his being.

Knowing there would be time for grief later if Hetty's positive I.D. came back. For now, duty called, and Callen would answer. He had a team going into the field that relied on him to be performing at his very best.

Chapter 20: Conscientious Objections

The doors to the Operations Centre closed behind him, enveloping him in the familiar atmosphere of purpose and intensity. He swiftly turned his attention to the Admiral's assistant, Shayla, wanting to receive a full debrief on their latest case.

"What do we got?" he asked, his voice steady and commanding.

"Explosion and subsequent fire at Havlock/Haines Aerospace last night," Shyla stated, her tone all business. "They design and build remote piloted vehicles for the Navy. A janitor was killed, a security guard severely injured. ATF Bomb Squad said that it was a nitrosamine high explosive."

As Shayla's words echoed in his mind, his thoughts instinctively travelled back in time to one of his science classes growing up.

Callen took a seat in the rather utilitarian science classroom, surrounded by his fellow Drona subjects. The second-floor classroom exuded an atmosphere of efficiency, with its largely unadorned walls and neatly arranged desks.

With a firm tone, Mr. Jones, a man in his early to mid-thirties, addressed the class. His piercing gaze swept across the room, demanding attention and respect. "Settle down, everyone. We're going to start a new unit. Today, we'll be delving into the fascinating topic of Octogen. Pay close attention, as this knowledge is crucial for your training."

Whispers flitted amongst the students, their voices hushed yet tinged with curiosity. Subject Four, his desk partner, leaned slightly towards him and quietly asked, "Hey, Seventeen, have you ever heard of Octogen before?"

He, aware of the potential consequences if they got caught, discreetly positioned his hand to cover his mouth as he whispered back, "Nope, never. You?"

Subject Four, the boy's feathered hair falling into place, replied just as softly, "No, it's completely new to me too."

Aware of the importance of keeping a low profile, Callen leaned in closer and spoke softly, his hand strategically placed to hide his words."Right, let's pay attention. Last thing we need's to end up in Pembrook's office." Given Mr. Pembrook's penchant for inflicting harsh corporal punishment, Callen didn't particularly want to spend any more time with the man than strictly necessary.

The teacher wrote on the chalkboard, the chemical formula for Octogen appearing in white against the green surface. The classroom fell silent as the man began to explain to the class what exactly it was.

As the room fell into silence, his thoughts turned to the evening ahead. The Rostoffs, his foster parents, had promised to take him and his four-year-old foster sister, Alina, out for dinner after school. He hadn't had much luck with foster placements lately and the Rostoffs had been so nice to him. He really hoped he'd be able to stay this time; the family all spoke Russian but he found that the language was coming quite easily to him. Both Nikolai and Masha were impressed.

"Octogen," Mr. Jones told them, "also known as HMX, is a highly explosive compound utilized in military operations. Its properties and potential applications are crucial to understand in our scientific studies."

Callen's interest sparked as he realized the subject matter involved explosives. His focus sharpened, his hair framing his face as he leaned forward slightly, eager to absorb the new information.

As their teacher continued with the lecture, discussing the chemical properties and applications of Octogen, Callen listened attentively. The topic, although not initially interesting to him, now held a certain intrigue, especially as he observed the growing fascination of his classmates.

He hummed, refocusing on the present. "Octogen. Any leads on suspects?"

"Not yet," Shyla replied without missing a beat. "Luis Estevez was the janitor. Morgan Reynolds was the guard. But neither fits the profile. It seems more like they were just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Alright," he said, his mind already strategizing. "And where are the others?"

"Kensi and Deeks went to talk to the janitor. Rountree is working the security guard," Shayla explained. "You'll be heading to the crime scene with Fatima. She just went to grab the car from the motorpool. As you know..."

He nodded, finishing her sentence. "... Sam took the day off as he has an appointment with the activity centre for his father." Not that the Marine Colonel was overly excited about the prospect of going to an 'adult daycare.' Sam and Raymond had been going back and forth about it for a couple of days.

He gave Shyla a curt nod and took his leave, joining Fatima outside.

The Iranian-American, more accurately described as the rich kid from Beverly Hills, stood beside her vibrant red Porsche, contentedly waiting for him.

He let out a controlled sigh as he took in the scene, his breath barely betraying his inner turmoil. "Really?" he muttered with a detached air, his words carrying a hint of dismissiveness and frustration.

"Yeah," Fatima replied, her tone lighthearted. "My old show went into syndication."

"Well, that's not exactly subtle," he responded, his words laced with a hint of sarcasm.

She smirked. "Well, this is L.A., baby! You know, subtle stands out." Fatima's eyebrow raised, a flicker of concern crossing her face before she quickly masked it. This wasn't the first time that she'd seen Callen shut down. "Is everything okay?" Fatima inquired, concern evident in her voice.

"A recon unit in Syria found the remains of a human body at an ambush site," he said, his voice strained but controlled. He didn't see the need to hide the truth from Fatima. "It was carrying one of Hetty's alias I.D.s. They haven't confirmed whether or not it was her, but the... the size of the body matches."

She sighed as she absorbed the weight of the news. "My God. I am so sorry. Is there anything that we can do?"

"Not now," he stated, his tone detached. They both needed to be focused on the case, not some unknown situation half the globe away. The rest of the team was counting on them. "Let's-let's just go."

She nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Okay. Yeah."

With heavy hearts, the pair climbed into Fatima's car. Callen chose the passenger side, allowing Fatima to take the driver's seat. It was her car after all, and he really had no desire to be responsible for any potential damage to her beloved Porsche.

They headed to the crime scene, stepping cautiously amidst the debris and remnants of the back of the Havlock/Haines Aerospace building. The once bustling workspace now lay in ruins, a stark contrast to the life that had been there the day before. They stood talking to Monica Taveres, one of the department heads.

"We're still assessing the damage," Taveres said, her voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and concern. "Plus rebuild time and lost revenue and contracts in the interim."

Callen surveyed the scene, his eyes scanning the chaos around them. "Any ideas who did this?" he asked, his tone steady and determined.

An air of uncertainty clouded Taveres' response. "Anarchists, right-wing extremists, anti-war activists?" she listed off, unsure of the exact motives behind the attack.

"Any industry rivals or, uh, disgruntled employees?" Fatima asked.

Taveres nodded in acknowledgment. "'E,' all of the above," she replied. "Not everyone likes what we do, especially after we took on military contracts."

Callen's mind was already working through potential leads. "Did you lose any employees after that?" he asked, hoping to find a solid place to start their investigation.

"A few chose to leave over their conscientious objections to manufacturing weapons of war," Taveres admitted, although her tone made him think there hadn't been any major incidents.

Fatima jumped in with a practical suggestion. "Can we get their contact info?"

"Of course," Taveres readily agreed. "Although I don't think any of them are capable of this."

He shifted his focus slightly, probing for any prior incidents. "Have you had any trouble in the past?"

Taveres sighed. "Nothing as overt," she replied, her voice tinged with frustration, "but we've been subjected to a relentless onslaught of cyberattacks."

Before he could ask anything else, his cell phone buzzed, momentarily grabbing his attention.

"You know who's behind those?" Fatima asked, taking over the questioning.

"Not yet," Taveres said, her voice tinged with a mix of determination and uncertainty.

He quickly pulled out his cell phone, his eyes scanning the call display. "It's Ops," he informed Fatima, his tone suggesting the importance of the call. He walked towards Taveres with purpose. "Excuse me." With that, he distanced himself, moving several steps away to take the call in private. "Hey, what do you have?"

"We just received a preliminary coroner's report," Shyla informed him. "The janitor, Luis Estevez, was already dead several hours before the explosion."

"Dead?" he echoed, his voice betraying a mix of surprise and concern. "That changes things. Anything on the C.O.D.?"

"It's not clear yet," Shyla explained, not liking it any more than he did. "The coroner's office is conducting a full autopsy, but they suspect foul play. There were signs of trauma on his body, unrelated to the explosion."

"That's concerning," he said. "We need to find out what happened to Estevez and how it's connected to the explosion. Keep me posted on the autopsy results."

"Will do," Shyla replied, her tone determined.

Ending the call, Callen made his way back to Fatima, his expression contemplative. He needed to update Fatima on the newest development as quickly as possible. Much to his pleasant surprise, Monica Taveres had left and they had some privacy.

"If the janitor was killed hours before the explosion," he began, his voice filled with a mix of deduction and realization, "it would suggest that they used him to get inside."

Fatima nodded, her own mind working to connect the dots. "It makes sense," she agreed. "Nobody but the cleaning crew or security working at night. It's easier access. They grab him, use his I.D. Hell, they probably brought the body in with the bomb, maybe in the cleaning cart. That's what I'd do.

"That's a little scary," he remarked, genuinely impressed by the astute observations of his junior agent. She was proving herself more capable with each passing day. "But it is a good way to dispose of the body."

"Probably hoped it would look like he was killed in the explosion," Fatima speculated, her voice filled with a mix of concern and determination.

He gestured towards the exit with a subtle nod of his head. "Well, let's see what turns up at the residence," he suggested, his tone resolute and ready for action. He then began walking purposefully out of the building, Fatima trailing closely behind.

Stepping out into the crisp air, Callen pulled out his phone, his eyes scanning the text he had just received from Shyla. With a quick press of a button, he dialled Kensi's number, putting her on speakerphone. As the call connected, he and Fatima began making their way toward Fatima's car. "Hey."

Kensi's voice came through the speaker. "Hey, Callen. What's going on?"

He wasted no time getting straight to the point. "We've got some new information on the case," he stated, his voice focused and determined. "I need to know if, based on your interview with Estevez's daughter, there's any chance he's involved."

There was a brief pause over the line. "No, I mean, unless this is a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde situation, honestly, I don't see it," Kensi said, her voice filled with skepticism. "I mean, this guy's like Mister Rogers, just more neat."

"Ask the daughter if she has power of attorney," Callen instructed, his voice firm. "If so, we may be able to access his phone and financial records. I don't want to miss anything."

"Will do," Kensi replied without missing a beat. "Yeah."

Fatima, curious and proactive, interjected, "Did he have any home security?"

Kensi scoffed at the thought. "This guy wouldn't even lock his doors."

"Well, whoever grabbed him must have had surveillance on him," Fatima deduced, her voice analytical. "Maybe we can spot them."

"Yeah, we can ask the neighbours if they have any home security cams," Kensi suggested, her mind already formulating the plan.

"Yeah," Callen agreed, his thoughts aligning with Kensi's. "And see if the daughter can help you work up what his daily routine was."

"Well, phone records will help, and hopefully his vehicle has GPS," Kensi added, trying to consider all possible avenues for information.

"Well, he left his Jeep at the plant," he said, explaining the text from Shyla he'd just received, "but they're having it trailered over to the carport for a full workup."

"Okay," Kensi acknowledged, the pieces falling into place. "Got it. We'll let you know if we find anything here."

"Sounds good," he replied.

"Bye." With that, Kensi ended the call, and the line went silent.

With focused determination, he and Fatima both hopped into the junior agent's sports car, ready to drive back to OSP Headquarters.

Chapter 21: Breakthrough

Back at OSP, he and Fatima started surfing through the meagre items in the truck. He was walking outside after grabbing Fatima's tablet for her when he spotted Admiral Kilbride walking by the top of the stairs.

"Admiral?" Callen's voice carried up the stairs, reaching the Operations Manager. "Any news from Syria?"

The Admiral turned, his gaze meeting Callen's with a stern intensity. "I would have informed you if there were, Agent Callen," he replied, his voice laden with authority. "What have you got for me?"

"Nothing yet, sir," he admitted, his tone reflecting a touch of frustration.

A sense of urgency resonated in the Admiral's voice as he continued, "The people who did this are still out there, probably with more targets in mind. I need you focused on the task at hand, not an unknown situation half the globe away. Am I understood?"

He absorbed the Admiral's words, realizing the necessity of prioritizing the immediate threat. While he had felt focused and dedicated, he couldn't deny the validity of the man's point. "Yes, sir," he replied firmly, his voice laced with determination.

With a curt nod of satisfaction, the Admiral dismissed him. "Good. Now go catch these bastards before they strike again."

Deciding to get back to work, he headed back outside to the carport where Fatima was waiting for him to help her finish going over Estevez's truck.

"Here you go," Callen said, hanging Fatima the tablet throw the passenger side of the large truck. He noticed the scent of bleach still lingering in the air, a tell-tale sign of someone attempting to cover their tracks.

"Whoever took him wiped this thing clean," Fatima said from the driver's side of the truck where she'd been trying to collect some fibres. "I can still smell the bleach." Her expression shifted. "Any news on Hetty?"

"No," he replied curtly. His cell phone began vibrating in his pocket. Pulling out it, he quickly checked the caller I.D., hoping it was a call or message from Deeks, Kensi, or Roundtree about some sort of a breakthrough in the case.

Fatima's gaze flicked to Callen, concern etching her features. "All good?"

"Yeah," he assured her, slipping his phone back into his pocket, his voice remaining quite serious. "It's just my sister calling. I'm sure she just wants to know if I want to do something with Jake."

Fatima's eyes instantly lit up, a wistful expression crossing her face. "Aw. How fun. Wish I had a niece or nephew." Her brows furrowing slightly as she studied his expression. She couldn't help but notice the seriousness in his voice and the subtle tension in his demeanour. "All good?" 

"Yeah," Callen reassured her, slipping his phone back into his pocket. His eyes met hers, his features still reflecting a sombre tone. "It's just my sister calling. I'm sure she just wants to know if I want to do something with Jake."

Fatima's eyes instantly lit up at the mention of family, a wistful expression crossing her face. "Aw. How fun. Wish I had a niece or nephew."

"Yeah, well, at least while they're young," Callen mused, a tinge of bittersweetness lacing his voice. He paused for a moment, reflecting on the changing dynamics of family connections. "Turns out the world's coolest uncle is not as interesting these days as a video game with dancing and guns.” 

"Ah... I see," the junior agent replied. "Just out of curiosity, did you give yourself the designation of world's coolest uncle?"

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Callen's lips as he attempted to lighten the atmosphere. "Who's cooler than me?"

The junior agent let out a small chuckle at his response.

"You don't think I'm cool?" he fired back, his tone partially teasing. Yet deep down, a twinge of longing and vulnerability struggled to break through his stoic facade.

Caught off guard, Fatima stumbled over her words, momentarily flustered. "What? No. Yeah. Yeah, you're cool. You're, like, super cool."

He met her gaze, a flicker of vulnerability briefly crossing his face. He recognized the sincerity in her words, providing a bittersweet reassurance. He quickly masked his feelings behind a playful smirk, not wanting to dwell on his own insecurities. "Okay, let's... let's not oversell it."

With that, Callen briskly walked around the front of the truck, his steps purposeful, burying his emotions deeper within him. He redirected his attention to the task at hand, channelling his energy into the investigation, determined to focus on the work ahead. The weight of his thoughts remained, but he pushed them aside, refusing to let them hinder his concentration. He had a job to do.

They'd just finished going over the truck when Callen got a message from Shyla, the Admiral's assistant wanting them to join her up in the Operations Centre for a debrief.

Apparently, the Technical Services Division - the agency's cyber unit - finally made a solid breakthrough. They'd successfully identified the source of the computer attacks on Havlock/Haines, and they traced it back to a foreign source in Beirut which made Hezbollah's involvement even more likely.

And that was how he found himself standing in the middle of their Operations Centre, his hand casually resting on the table as three of them has a debrief.

"Lebanon is an ally," Shyla remarked, highlighting the complexities of the situation.

"Yeah," Fatima said, her voice tinged with concern, "but Hezbollah is not. They're not only a militant group in that country, they're a successful political party."

He nodded, his expression pensive. "Well, we've known they have operatives in this country ever since the arrest of Ali Kourani and Samir el-Debek a couple years ago."

"Weren't most of those operations to raise money and secure weapons?" Shyla asked, wanting to confirm that she wasn't missing anything.

"Yeah," Fatima said, her tone thoughtful, "but things change." She crossed her arms. Especially as our relationship with Iran worsens. "Iran is like Hezbollah's sugar daddy."

Shyla's gaze shifted to him. "You find anything in Estevez's truck?"

"Nah, it was wiped clean," he replied, a hint of frustration colouring his voice. "And the GPS history was deleted."

Shyla's eyes widened slightly. "Oof, that's sophisticated, even for Hezbollah."

Callen, ever the strategist, swiftly settled on a course of action. "Why don't you reach out to the ODNI?" he instructed Shyla, his tone decisive. "See if you can get the most recent list of Hezbollah members in this country, especially anyone on the west coast."

With that, he turned and started walking purposefully toward the door, his mind going back over everything they'd learned so far, trying to find another angle.

"Got it," Shyla said, already immersed in the task he'd set her.

Roundtree's efforts with the interviews had hit a roadblock, leaving him frustrated. However, Deeks had just called, informing them that he and Kensi were en route back to OSP. They'd gathered a bunch of security cam footage of the homes around Luis Estevez's house and sent it to Shyla from the Boatshed. They were now on their way back to help sift through all of the video footage.

Settling into the bullpen, he and Fatima pulled up some of the footage onto his team's plasma screen, starting to go over some of that footage. The coroner's official report had also finally come in, so Callen quickly read over that as well.

"The coroner's report has Estevez's death around 4:00 PM," he informed the junior agent. Something on the plasma then caught Callen's attention. Swiftly grabbing the remote control, he started to rewind the footage. "Hey, check this out."

"What am I looking at?" Fatima asked.

He stopped rewinding and zoomed in on a specific object in the corner of the footage. "Bunny's Laundry and Dry Cleaning van," he pointed out.

Fatima hummed in acknowledgment.

"It's there at eleven o'clock," Callen noted, his gaze focused on the van's presence. He then fast-forwarded the footage by two hours. "Still there two hours later."

"So, they could be taking a long lunch or the day off," Fatima offered, exploring the plausible explanations.

"Or having a stakeout," Callen countered, his mind racing with possibilities.

He and Fatima headed up to the Operations Centre to have a chat with Shyla. They were looking to get some background information on the company that owned the van from the video footage.

"Bunny Vale Laundry is a chain throughout the Southland," Shyla explained, pulling up a series of photos to accompany her words. "And when we started looking for this specific van, it showed up in multiple locations at the same time as Estevez."

His brows furrowed as he absorbed the details. "And the owner is...?"

"Currently it's one Darius, aka 'Bunny' Vale, and his wife, Sara," Shyla said, her voice filled with a mix of intrigue and curiosity.

"Lebanese-American," Fatima speculated.

"Persian-American," Shyla gently corrected. "First generation born in the U.S."

He nodded, filing that information away. "Any links to Hezbollah?" he inquired, delving into the possibility of a deeper connection.

"None that I could find," Shyla replied, her tone implying that she'd diligently searched for any such associations but came up short.

"Could be using his business as a front," Fatima suggested.

"Are you suggesting they're 'laundering' money?" Shyla quipped, apparently unable to resist a little clever wordplay.

Fatima chuckled, momentarily caught up in the lighthearted moment, until she noticed Callen's rather unamused expression. She then quickly composed herself.

"Sorry," Shyla said with a slightly mischievous glint in her eyes, not looking apologetic in the least. "Couldn't resist."

Callen's focus shifted back to the matter at hand. "I think we need to have a talk with Bunny Vale," he declared, his voice firm and determined. With that, he turned on his heel and headed out of the Operations Centre, his strides purposeful. Fatima wasted no time in following him out to the carport.

Hopefully, Bunny Vale would be able to give them some answers.

Chapter 22: Bunny Vale

Arriving at the Boatshed, Callen and Fatima patiently waited for Agent Castor to arrive with Bunny Vale so they could proceed with the interview. While they had a little time before their suspect arrived, he decided to indulge in his favourite choice of lunch from a nearby food truck - some fish tacos and a refreshing bottle of water. Fatima, on the other hand, opted for a falafel wrap and a cooling mint lemonade.

They'd just finished eating when Agent Castor arrived with Bunny Vale. Without much delay, Agent Castor then needed to excuse himself as he got called away for an urgent undercover meet that the man's team had successfully set up.

Once inside the main interrogation room, he placed a printed photograph of the van captured in the surveillance footage down on the table, ensuring it was directly in front of Bunny Vale. "That's one of your vans?"

"Yes," the man readily confirmed. "I have over a dozen of them."

"Well, we believe that this one was used in the commission of a crime," he said rather matter-of-factly, attentively observing Bunny's reaction as he said it.

Bunny's expression shifted slightly. "I was afraid of that," he said, his tone revealing some uneasiness under the surface despite the solid attempt at appearing completely confident. "That's the one that was stolen."

The strange reaction piqued Callen's curiosity, so he filed that away, intending to delve further into the matter at some point in the interview.

"Your van was stolen?" Fatima asked.

"Yes, just the other night," the man explained.

He hummed. "You didn't file a police report."

"Oh, I didn't know it was stolen," the man claimed. "And then when I did, one of my employees found it before I could. There was no damage, so I figured it was just some teenagers on a joyride. They did empty the gas tank."

He hummed in disbelief.

"Where did your employee find the van?" Fatima asked.

"Just down the street from one of my locations," the man replied.

He hummed again. "And what was this employee's name?"

"Emelio," Bunny replied. "Good kid. Been with me for years." Callen hummed again and Bunny glanced between the two agents. "Anything else?"

Pulling out his phone, he showed Bunny a photo from the morgue. Glancing at the photograph, Bunny instinctively looked away, rapidly muttering under his breath in his native Farsi as he did so.

"This is what remains of Luis Estevez," he stated, his voice turning serious. "A father, grandfather. Who was probably murdered in your van." He put his phone away. "So, once forensics is done going through it with a fine-tooth comb any evidence they find will link you to his murder."

"Not to mention a terrorist bombing on American soil," the junior agent added. "How long have you, uh, supported Hezbollah?"

"What? No!" Bunny protested, shocked by the accusation. "Nothing. Never!"

"Nothing, never?" Fatima quipped. "Sounds like a Taylor Swift song."

He shot Bunny a rather pointed look. "You try and play us, Bunny, you're going to be in Guantanamo Bay with your extremist brothers before dinner."

"I had nothing to do with this," the man insisted.

"Then who did?" he pressed. "Last chance, Bunny."

The man hesitated before finally responding, fear and concern evident in his eyes. "I can't help you. They'll hurt my family."

"We can protect your family," Fatima assured him.

"Not in Tehran," Bunny replied.

He leaned over the table slightly. "We have agents all over the world."

"But not in Iran," Bunny pointed out.

"But you're not in Iran, Bunny," Fatima interjected. "You're in the United States of America, and whoever is behind this is a threat to you and your family. Tell us who they are, so we can stop them from hurting anyone else."

"I don't know," Bunny confessed. "Two men approached me. They demanded a van, threatening harm to my relatives back in Iran if I didn't comply. I was told not to ask questions and not to tell anyone. I simply gave them the van to use, and then they returned it."

"Where were they staying?" he inquired.

"I don't know," Bunny admitted. "I only provided them with the van."

"Did they approach anyone else?" Fatima pressed, but Bunny remained silent. Fatima switched to Farsi, appealing to Bunny in their shared language. "Bunny... bayād be mā komak koni. Digeh hameye shomā dar khatere hastid." (You need to help us. You're all in danger if you don't.)

Though his Farsi was not as fluent as Fatima's, Callen understood what she was saying to Bunny with rather little effort on his part.

"My friend, Ava," Bunny finally revealed. "They threatened her as well."

"What did they want from her?" he pressed.

"A place to work," Bunny explained. "She's involved in commercial real estate."

He turned to Fatima, a determined look in his eyes. "Call in Sam," he demanded, tone leaving no room for argument. "We're going to need the entire team for this."

Fatima nodded firmly. "Yeah."

Shyla reached out to Bunny's commercial real estate friend, Ava Safari, who came through with the address she'd given the group. With the information in hand, they get ready to go tactical. Sam agreed to meet them on scene while he, Kensi and Deeks put together a tentative plan based on the building schematics.

"Nice of you to finally join us," he quipped, a playful smirk on his face as Sam stepped beside him outside the imposing office building.

"Trust me," Sam replied, his tone slightly weary, "I'd rather be chasing bad guys than trying to convince my father to behave himself."

"How's he doing?" Fatima asked, genuine concern in her voice.

"He's... doing everything he can to drive me crazy," Sam stated, a hint of frustration lacing the man's words.

Kilbride's voice came through their comms. "If you all are finished chitchatting, maybe we could get this operation started."

The field agents fell silent, their focus shifting to the task at hand, the team now directly in front of the large office building. They quickly assumed their previously agreed-upon positions, Sam simply following Callen's lead, a trust forged through years of working together.

With precision, he and Sam entered the office building through a discreet side door. Shyla's voice sounded over their comms, relaying important information. "The building is owned by Ava Safari. It's only about 26% occupied since COVID wiped out most of her tenants. The office she gave them is on a floor that's otherwise vacant."

"Good," he replied, a sense of relief colouring his words. He didn't want any civilians caught in the crossfire. "Last thing we need are collateral casualties."

"Consider these people armed," Kilbride's voice echoed through their comms, a stern reminder of the imminent danger. "We know they're dangerous, and they have access to high explosives, so watch out for booby traps."

He heard the familiar ding of the elevator, followed by Deeks' voice breaking through the tension. "I'm sor... What, bo-booby trap? Wait, nobody said anything about a booby trap. I'm not the bomb disposal guy. Maybe Sam should be coming in here first."

"They're not expecting company, Deeks," Sam said. "You'll be fine. Probably."

Deeks couldn't help but scoff. "Probably."

Suddenly, another man's voice could be heard over the team's comms, causing Callen to tense up slightly. "Whoa! What are you doing in here?"

"Oh, hey!" Deeks quickly switched into his undercover persona, attempting to salvage the situation. "I didn't know this place was rented again. Cool. I'm L.A. Fire, here for the monthly inspection."

"You can't do that now," the man replied coldly. "Come back tomorrow."

"Oh, cannot do that," Deeks smoothly said. "Starting the triple seven tower tomorrow. Nakatomi Plaza." Deeks chuckled lightly as he continued. "You've heard of it." The younger agent's tone became more businesslike. "But this will only take a second. Is anybody else here? Because they may want to step out into the hall. It's about to get loud when I turn on the alarm." There was a faint sound, puzzling to Callen.

"I said no!" the man replied angrily. "You need to leave right now."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I can't hear anything with these on!" Deeks explained, referring to the earlier sound. Callen then realized that Deeks had put on his yellow headphones. "But, seriously, your ears are gonna start ringing like you were at the front row of a Motörhead concert."

The tension escalated when Kensi's urgent voice pierced through the team's comms. "Weapon!" She had a sniper's vantage point from a building across the street, giving her a viewpoint the rest of them didn't have. He and Sam quickened their pace, their concern for Deeks mounting. Moments later, they heard the unmistakable sound of Kensi firing off a shot, followed by her voice again. "Tango down."

"What?" Deeks exclaimed, a little shocked by how quickly things had gone down. "Oh! Oh. Wow. Bad guy down. We're good."

He and Sam rushed into the room where Deeks was, entering from different sides. Sam swiftly scanned the area and called out, "Clear."

"Uh, we're clear in here," Deeks relayed to Kensi through their comms. "Nice shot, honey."

"Baby, that was way too close," Kensi responded, her voice laced with concern. "That guy almost shot you in the back of the head."

"If I had a nickel for every time I was almost shot in the back of the head, I could take us all to Cabo," Deeks joked, using gallows humour to deal with what just happened. "Actually, you know what? I was shot in the back of the head. Darrel Dinkins." Deeks touched a spot on his head. "I still got the BB right under my scalp right there."

"You sure it didn't make its way into your brain?" Sam teased.

Deeks chuckled, his words tinged with a touch of sarcasm. "God, I missed you today."

"I bet you did," Sam quipped without missing a beat.

Deeks chuckled again, clearly relieved by Kensi's successful intervention as he knew it could've gone so much worse.

Chapter 23: This Back-and-Forth

Callen, Sam, and Deeks started diligently sorting through the evidence while Roundtree and Fatima took photos of their dead suspect and scanned the man's fingerprints.

"Alright," Rountree said, "sending you photos and fingerprints now."

"Got it," Shyla replied promptly over their comms.

"Uh, he's got a cell phone on him," he told Shyla, his voice focused. "I'm assuming it's a burner. I'll send you the number and the call history. See if you can find anything."

Admiral Kilbride's voice cut through the team's comms. "Have any I.D. on him?"

"I got a Canadian passport here that identifies him as one Cyrus Karimian. Born in Fort Erie, Ontario," his partner chimes in, his tone laced with some skepticism. "Doubt it's real. Unfortunately, I got four more passports here for different men, so either this guy's selling these or we may have a whole cell here."

"Wonderful," Kilbride stated sarcastically, his frustration rather evident. "Did he have time to warn the others?"

"Highly doubtful," he replied, his voice carrying a sense of confidence.

"Any signs of where the others might be?" Kilbride inquired.

"I mean, I'd like to think they're visiting The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, but they probably have other plans," Deeks quipped, injecting a touch of humour to lighten the atmosphere. "They've been shredding documents," he said more seriously. "This one looks like a topographical map."

"Can you tell what it was?" Kilbride asked, pressing for more details.

"I mean, maybe if I was The Amazing Kreskin," Deeks responded without missing a beat, his words dripping with wry humour.

Fatima turned to them, looking puzzled. "Who's The Amazing Kreskin?"

"Uh, that was before Google," Sam said, neither senior agent wanting to dive into that right now. It wasn't the time or place.

His focus sharpened as something caught his attention on the phone he was sifting through. "Uh, I may have something here," he informed Shyla, his voice tinged with urgency. "I sent you a photo." He zoomed in on the logo that he'd just found in the background of an image and turned toward Sam to show him. If it was what Callen thought it was, it wasn't good. "You recognize this?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed. "That's not good."

Deeks immediately interjected, concerned. "Wait, 'not good' like, 'aw, that sucks,' or 'not good' like 'the phone call is coming from inside the house?'"

He shot Deeks a pointed look, conveying the gravity of the situation. The metaphorical call wasn't coming from inside the house, but the implications weren't much better.

Shyla's typing was audible over the comms as she searched for information. "Uh, it's the symbol of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps' staff college."

"These guys aren't Hezbollah," Sam explained to the junior agents, his tone conveying a sense of urgency. "They're Quds Force. Iranian special operatives. Normally, they only train proxies to fight in other conflicts."

"Son of a b¡tch!" Admiral Kilbride's exclamation cut through the airwaves, his frustration palpable. "I knew this smelled state-sponsored. I will bet you my grandchildren that the RPV that took out Soleimani was manufactured by Havlock/Haines."

"You don't have grandchildren, sir," Shyla playfully pointed out. The Admiral seemingly shot her a pointed look, causing her to quickly backtrack. "Right. Searching."

Deeks, seeking clarity, asked, "Who's Keyser Söze?" referring to Soleimani.

"He was an Iranian military leader that was killed by an RPV a couple of years ago," he quickly explained, very familiar with the individual in question. Qasem Soleimani was an Iranian military general who commanded the Quds Force, a branch of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. He played a significant role in Iran's regional strategy and supported various proxy groups across the Middle East. Soleimani was killed in a U.S. drone strike back in January 2020, leading to increased tensions between Iran and the United States. No doubt, that had led to this.

Admiral Kilbride's voice turned serious as he addressed the team over the comms. "He was a beloved hero in his country, and this, Team America, is payback."

Rountree let out a small chuckle. "Team America. That's hilarious."

"You think this is funny, Rountree?" the Admiral chastised before Callen had time to intervene and redirect the junior agent.

"Uh... No, sir!" Rountree quickly replied, his amusement fading. "Absolutely not."

Callen shifted the team's focus back to the task at hand. "Any luck locating the other numbers from the cell?" he asked Shyla.

"Uh, looks like... they are travelling together or going in the same direction on the PCH," Shyla relayed. "Last cell tower to carry them is just past Malibu."

"So maybe they're surfers?" Deeks suggested half-jokingly, aware of the unlikelihood of his little theory.

He shot Deeks a sharp look. The man really needed to learn when to shut the hell up and focus on the work. Right now was decidedly not the time to be joking around. For multiple reasons, the Admiral's current temperament being among them.

Recognition dawned on his partner's face. "Point Mugu," Sam said, his voice laced with a hint of worry. Aiden was still stationed there.

"Naval Station Ventura County is the West Coast base for the Triton RPV project," the Admiral interjected with urgency. "Get the base commander on the phone, and I want helicopters on the roof of that building in two minutes."

"How am I supposed to...?" Shyla began to ask, seeking guidance.

"I don't care," the Admiral stated firmly. "Coast Guard, Sheriff's department, LAPD, hell, every TV and radio station in the area has got traffic copters up. Commandeer every damn one of them if you have to."

"Aye, aye, sir!" Shyla replied, swiftly starting to do as asked.

Admiral Kilbride inadvertently released a weary sigh, momentarily forgetting that his comms were still active. With a sense of urgency, the team sprang into action, swiftly collecting their gear and rushing to the rooftop where they were supposed to catch the helicopters that Admiral Kilbride wanted.

Thanks to the helicopters rustled up by Shyla, the OSP team arrived at the Naval base before the Iranian operatives did and quickly apprehended the suspects with minimal destruction. The firefight resulted in some damage to the base's security gate as well as a couple of other things by the entrance. Additionally, the Iranian operatives' van crashed into a small storage container, resulting in a minor explosion.

As the Military Police took custody of the Iranian operatives, Rountree gave Deeks a hand getting down from one of the storage containers. Meanwhile, Sam's phone rang, his partner's words quickly prompting some concern.

"Everything, Mrs. Williams?" Sam inquired, his voice laced with concern.

Callen turned his attention to listen, sensing that something was amiss.

"What do you mean gone?" Sam's voice showed surprise and confusion. "Who? I have no idea who that is. Can you get me a number or an address? You don't need to do anything else. I'll take it from here, alright? Okay."

After Sam ended the call, Callen probed, "Trouble?"

Sam sighed heavily, weariness evident in his voice. "When the caretaker arrived, my father had already left the senior activity centre."

His expression showed his concern. "Alright, you need to look for him?"

"I'd prefer not to," Sam admitted, surprising Callen and leaving him more than a little puzzled. "He left with another member, some woman named Victoria."

A genuine smile spread across Callen's face, the first since hearing the news of Hetty's I.D. being found that morning. "Your father hooked up with someone on his first day?" he said before breaking into genuine laughter.

Sam's reaction was less amused. "Don't..."

"That is impressive," he quipped.

"Don't start," his partner warned.

"He could teach you a few things," Callen teased, playfully prodding Sam.

His partner raised his hand in a gesture of protest. "Don't start."

Wrapping up at the scene, they made their way back to OSP headquarters to clean and put away their tactical gear. While he was cleaning his service weapon, he got a request from Admiral Kilbride to meet him in his office once he was done.

Finishing up with his gear, Callen left the rest of his team in the armoury and made his way to Admiral Kilbride's office. A moment later, he was knocking on Admiral Kilbride's office door, waiting for permission to enter.

"Enter," the Admiral's firm voice resonated from within.

Callen stepped inside, finding the Admiral already offering him a drink. Two glasses of scotch were poured, waiting on the desk.

"Am I gonna need it?" Callen inquired, a hint of anticipation in his voice. He wondered if this was the Admiral's way of saying that positive DNA confirmation had come back on the remains found with Hetty's identification.

"Well, the longer you stay in this business, definitely," Kilbride responded, a touch of wry humour in his voice. "But not because of Hetty, not now anyway. The, uh, remains that they found were those of a female child, not Hetty."

He took a deep breath. He still felt torn about Hetty, given the situation she'd forced him into as a child and the lies but part of him still cared for her and was relieved to hear she wasn't gone. Partly, admittedly, out of a desire for answers, but in part due to her having been a huge part of his life. He was so sick of this back-and-forth with the woman, though. Composing himself, he addressed the Admiral. "So, what is a dead girl doing with one of Hetty's on her?"

"Well, if I had to guess, Hetty planted it on the body," the Admiral hypothesized. "Without forensics, that would probably convince whoever found the body that Hetty was dead."

"Which would suggest that she's in trouble," he surmised.

Admiral Kilbride eyed him, his gaze steady and serious. "Like I said, she was in trouble the minute she went back."

"I'd like permission to go look for her," he requested. He wanted nothing more than to go confront the uncertainty head-on and bring Hetty back safely, ending the agonizing back-and-forth.

"I'd like to have the knees I had when I was thirty, but it ain't happening," Kilbride responded bluntly, his words laced with a hint of frustration. "Now, maybe if we had any actionable intel, but until that time, she's on her own."

"Okay, well, I have plenty of annual leave I can use," he offered as an alternative. He wasn't all that surprised the Admiral didn't want to formally green-light it.

"Give your head a shake, Agent Callen," the Admiral advised firmly, his voice carrying a touch of concern. "We just had a foreign terrorist attack right in your own backyard, and you want to go halfway around the world searching for your surrogate mommy? Not a snowball's chance in hell."

Callen heard it for the warning it was. Flying off to go after his former foster mother would do no one any good. He hadn't liked hearing that but admittedly the advice wasn't wrong. Conceding the point, but still rather frustrated by the situation, he said, "Enjoy your scotch." He then walked out, closing the office door firmly behind him.

Callen left work, his mind filled with frustration and concern. As he drove home, the weight of the day's events lingered in his thoughts, making Callen feel torn in more ways than one. Upon arriving at his house, he entered and found Anna in the living room, immersed in the book "У войны не женское лицо," by Svetlana Alexievich. Also known as, “War’s Unwomanly Face.” She looked up from the novel, smiling warmly.

He returned the smile, appreciating how much lighter seeing it made him feel. He then walked over to Anna, leaning down to give her a quick kiss on the forehead.

"Privet, Grisha. Kak proshla rabota?" she asked, her tone caring yet straightforward. She understood the job's demands well considering she'd also done the same type of work her entire adult life. (Hey, Grisha. How was work?)

"Privet." He paused for a moment, his gaze meeting Anna's, before finally answering. "Segodnya bylo nemnogo trudno," he admitted. (Hey. Today was a little tough.)

His fiancée closed her book, eyeing him. "O, pochemu?" (Oh, how come?)

He sighed and then walked to the couch and sat beside her, keeping his composure. "Eto Hetty," he explained before switching to English. "She had another close call in Syria and there's still no sign of her... It's complicated." (It's Hetty.)

Anna reached out, lightly placing her hand over his, offering him a silent reassurance.

"I know it's complicated, Callen," Anna said softly, her voice filled with understanding. "But you don't have to face it alone. We're in this together, remember?"

He nodded, appreciating her unwavering support. There was a sense of relief in having Anna by his side, someone who understood the intricacies of his past and the challenges he faced in the present. While he might not easily discuss his emotions, he knew Anna could read between the lines and provide the understanding he needed.

"I know," he said. "It's just... it's Hetty." She has always been there, even through all of the secrets and the lies. I can't help but worry. I want to turn and just... move on with my life, but... it's really hard.

Anna squeezed his hand gently, conveying her empathy. "I get it," she said, her voice steady. "You'll find her. You always do, eventually."

Leaning back into the couch, he felt a gentle sense of comfort wash over him. He turned to face his fiancée, appreciating her presence and the stability she brought to his chaotic world. "I love you," he said sincerely.

"I love you so much," she replied, voice filled with affection. Closing the gap between them, Anna leaned in, their lips meeting in a passionate and meaningful kiss. Lost in the shared moment, the world around them faded away.

Chapter 24: Of Value

The week passed in a whirlwind of activity, with work, Anna's marathon, and settling into their new home. They had just signed a long-term lease and were still adjusting to their new surroundings. Taking advantage of the pleasant weather, they embarked on a leisurely stroll through the neighbourhood, an hour to spare before Callen had to head to work. However, despite the outward appearance of normalcy, he couldn't shake the frequent nightmares that were slowly creating a divide between himself and Anna. He tried to shake off the haunting remnants of the latest one and enjoy their walk.

It was hard though when it was like he felt all of the blows physically happening to him again. 

The school day had almost reached its end, the final class in session, when Callen was informed he was to go and speak with Mr. Pembrook. A sense of unease gripped him as he gathered his belongings and made his way through the hallway and down to the first floor where the man was waiting for him.

He trudged towards the head teacher's office, the weight of his earlier mistake in the Kill House replaying in his mind. The Kill House, a simulated combat environment designed to test and hone their skills, had been the site of his recent performance failure. The midterm practical exam for their Weapons & Self-Defence class had not gone particularly well for him, and Callen knew the consequences that awaited him.

Walking into the room, the air felt charged with tension. The room was suffocating, its sterile atmosphere mirroring the rigid control that Mr. Pembrook exerted. The teacher sat behind his desk, his piercing gaze fixed upon Callen as he approached. In his hand, he held that wooden stick, his preferred tool of discipline.

"You made a grave mistake today, Seventeen." The teacher's voice cut through the air in the room like a whip, sending a shiver down Callen's spine.

Callen's eyes flickered to the wooden stick, a foreboding symbol of punishment. He knew he was about to face the consequences of his failure in the Kill House, a stark reminder of his lack of concentration. The recent sleepless nights he endured due to his current foster placement hardly justified his slip-up. "I know, sir."

Without warning, Mr. Pembrook struck the wooden stick against his open palm, the sound reverberating through the room. Callen managed not to visibly flinch this time although the thirteen-year-old, admittedly, wanted to.

"You have disappointed me, Seventeen." The head teacher’s voice cut through the silence, his words dripping with disappointment. "After five long years of training, your performance in the Kill House was, frankly, abysmal. It's disheartening to witness such a drastic failure from someone who has shown promise. You've let your guard down, and it's imperative that you regain your focus."

A mixture of fear and shame washed over Callen, his eyes fixed on the floor. He knew he had let down the head teacher, allowed his own weaknesses to sabotage his tactical performance. Now, he would pay the price.

With a swift motion, Mr. Pembrook brought down the stick upon Callen's outstretched palm. A sharp sting radiated through his hand and he bit down on his lip, refusing to show any signs of weakness. It was a small price to pay if it meant catching a glimpse of pride in his mentor’s eyes for taking his punishment without a single complaint.

But the head teacher wasn't yet satisfied. With a cold expression, he struck Callen's other hand, the force of the blow causing him to subtly wince.

Still, the teacher wasn't done. He struck once again, this time hitting his shoulder. The pain shot through his body, but he refused to let it break him. He clenched his teeth, his resolve hardening and bordering on self-denial. He knew that any outward display of emotion would only invite further punishment from the older man. Instead, Mr. Pembrook's mantra of 'Don't feel, feelings cause pain' became his mental shield to protect himself from the momentary discomfort.

"You need to understand the consequences of failure," Mr. Pembrook's voice dripped with an unsettling satisfaction. "Mediocrity has no place in the world we operate in, Seventeen. It's time you regain your focus and prove that this lapse was nothing more than a momentary weakness."

Callen nodded, his mind was reeling with a mix of self-disappointment and suppressed anger at the situation. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"And remember, Seventeen," Mr. Pembrook said. "Emotions are a liability. They cloud judgment, hinder progress. You must learn to detach, to rid yourself of the burden that they impose."

He nodded again, soaking in the man's words. "Yes, sir. I'll remember."

"Dismissed," Mr. Pembrook's voice rang out, the man's dismissal carrying the weight of disappointment and a warning of the consequences of failure.

Leaving the man's office, he rubbed his throbbing hand and shoulder. His mind swirled with a combination of resentment and determination to prove himself worthy.

Exiting the school building, he stepped into the warm Los Angeles sun, starting the familiar path to his latest foster home. The sun shone brightly overhead, casting a golden glow on the city streets. The world around him buzzed with life and energy, contrasting sharply with the turmoil in his heart.

As he continued his walk toward his current foster placement, he noticed a familiar sound growing louder as he approached the house. It was the voice of his foster father, Keith Mercer, but there was an unsettling edge to it. The man was drunk, as usual, and venting his frustrations in a loud, angry manner.

Callen's heart sank, knowing that it wasn't going to be a calm evening by any stretch of the imagination. With a heavy sigh, Callen then made a split-second decision. He turned around, leaving the suffocating house behind for a couple of hours. He'd return when the drunk had finally passed out. His feet carried him towards the Venice Beach Recreation Centre where Callen could shoot some hoops, the place a popular hang out spot for foster and street kids. Not that he had many friends… he never did. He moved around a lot and he had a hard time letting anyone get close to him.

Back in the present, the golden sunlight bathed the neighbourhood, casting a warm glow on the vibrant green leaves overhead. A gentle breeze blew through the streets, carrying with it the faint scent of ocean salt and the sound of rustling leaves.

Their stroll brought them to a nice little coffee shop that they decided to quickly step in and check out. As they resumed their walk back towards their new house, sipping their coffees, conversation flowed effortlessly between the pair.

Anna hummed contentedly, relishing the taste of her fresh brew. "Big relief," she said, taking another sip of her drink. "Huge relief."

"What's that?" he inquired, not sure what Anna was referring to.

A smile played on his fiancée's face as she explained. "This coffee's excellent. You see, I must have a great coffee shop within walking distance of my new home."

He couldn't help but chuckle at the blonde's enthusiasm.

"It's a deal breaker," she continued, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

Teasingly, he raised an eyebrow. "Um... you do realize that we've already moved in, correct?" he playfully asked, his amusement palpable.

Anna nodded, her smile unwavering. "So, you're saying I should have checked out the coffee shops before we signed the lease?" she replied, playing along.

With a nod and a grin, he agreed, "Yes, yes, yes, that would've been a good idea."

Amused, Anna concurred, her laughter bubbling forth. The conversation then took a bit of a more serious turn. "I have a meeting today at the Surfrider Foundation. They have an opening on their Blue Water Task Force," she shared, her tone suggesting a mix of determination and uncertainty.

Curiosity tinged Callen's voice as he probed further. He honestly hadn't expected her to decide to walk away from law enforcement although he was, of course. going to support her choice either way. He just wanted her to be happy. "So you've made your decision, huh? You're gonna leave law enforcement?"

"Yeah," Anna replied, although her tone didn't seem so certain. "Well, at least for now. And, I mean, I've always loved the outdoors and I love helping out, so..."

Lightly teasing her, Callen interjected, "Yes, you've been so interested, in fact, that you once made up a fake story about cleaning up a town after wildfires when, in fact, you were chasing down a rogue Russian spy."

With a playful laugh, she admitted to the deception, "I did do that."

He nodded, his eyes sparkling with fondness. "Uh-huh."

The conversation was momentarily interrupted as they walked past a man tending to his front yard, engrossed in gardening. But then, his heart clenched, and his breath hitched as his eyes locked onto the gardener. In that fleeting moment, an uncanny resemblance to Pembrook sent a chill down his spine, triggering a tumultuous surge of emotions within him. Anger, fear, and a deep yearning for answers flooded his being, as memories of the cold, clinical environment and harsh training methods employed by his former teacher washed over him.

In his mind, he was standing alongside Nate as the pair revisited the former campus of the Drona Project when they'd recently gone together. The image was so vivid, as if it were happening in the present. Pembrook, who had been occupied with pruning bonsai trees, turned around to face them. "So, what can I help you with today?"

Anna's concerned voice somewhat broke through the fog that was consuming Callen, jolting him back to the present. Though his mind still felt somewhat clouded, he did manage to acknowledge the man's greeting, his voice distant. "Morning," he replied, his thoughts still elsewhere.

Sensing his detachment, Anna grew more worried, her voice carrying both care and caution. "Is everything okay?" she inquired, her eyes searching his face.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, still feeling somewhat disoriented.

Realizing that now was not the time to press him further, she opted to tread carefully. Anna tried to keep things light. "Nothing. Nothing, the coffee's great."

With the passing of that momentary interruption, he found himself caught in a torrent of emotions but trying to focus on the present moment with his fiancée. Some days it was harder than others, though. Needing a distraction, he opted to still go to work as though nothing was going on.

Callen checked in with Fatima about her mother briefly before a new case came in. A couple, Emmet and Lindsey Sandhagen was abducted from their home in Westwood while the nanny and two kids were upstairs. They were both Department of Defence contractors with apparent access to sensitive information. The team split up to investigate at that point. Kensi and Fatima went to the couple's workplace and discovered a command centre with missile capabilities, leading the team to suspect terrorists were involved. They then found evidence that the nanny had accessed the couple's computer and interrogated her. She revealed a guy named Josh McCall was involved. They located McCall at the command centre, where Kensi and Fatima apprehended him and rescued the couple. The nanny was arrested for espionage and they set to work on reuniting the Sandhagen children with their parents. Something that although Callen was glad for but also rubbed a little salt into an old wound.

"So, Mila was the one behind all of this?" Fatima asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Deeks nodded, a hint of disappointment in his tone. "Yep, getting crushed by debt, didn't know what to do, and made herself a bad decision."

"She almost orphaned two kids today," he said, relieved for the two children. He would not wish being orphaned and tossed around foster care on anybody.

Kensi chimed in, trying to find the silver lining. "Well, I think, all things considered, it ended pretty well for the Sandhagens."

"And those diamond brokers," Deeks interjected.

Both Callen and Kensi hummed in agreement.

Fatima was clearly feeling the weight of the day. "I could really use a cold drink."

Kensi's eyes lit up with anticipation. "Ooh."

Deeks pointed down the street, acting a bit like a tourist guide. "Well, you know what, there's an amazing Cuban restaurant right around the corner."

Excitement filled Kensi's voice. "Ooh, I could definitely eat. I could eat."

Fatima nodded, her agreement clear.

Callen, wanting to treat his team, offered, "My treat. Let's go."

Kensi grinned at the generous gesture. "Even better."

"What? Your treat?" Deeks asked.

"My treat," he confirmed.

Kensi playfully repeated, "Callen's paying."

Deeks, catching on, joined in. "Psh, I'm in."

Kensi chuckled, pleased with the plan, as they started walking down the street. Dinner at the Cuban restaurant would be a welcome distraction. However, two hours later, he was back home, waiting for Anna to start the conversation he had been trying to avoid but knew they needed to have.

He poured them each a glass of Anna's favourite white wine, the golden liquid shimmering in the glass. With the glasses in hand, he joined her in the serene backyard, offering her one, which she eagerly accepted. "Thank you."

A soft smile curved his lips. "You're welcome," he replied, taking a seat beside her on the outdoor sofa. He turned toward her slightly, draping his right arm around her. "So, how was the job interview today?"

Anna took a moment to savour the aroma of the wine before responding. "It was great. The work they do is very important and..."

He hummed, raising his glass to take a sip.

Her voice continued, filled with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. "They gave me a generous offer."

He lowered his glass, turning his attention fully to his fiancée. "Uh, congratulations?" he said, genuinely happy for her. "Wh-When do you start?"

A note of hesitation crept into Anna's voice. "I didn't take their job," she confessed. "I was sitting in that office, and I guess I just... I felt..." She sighed, her voice trailing off. "I was trained for a very specific life since I was a kid."

Callen understood that all too well. It was the same thing for him. They'd both grown up being groomed for the spy game from early childhood.

"The company that specializes in parental kidnappings reached out again," she stated, her voice filled with uncertainty. "I'd just need to get my Private Investigator licence."

He questioned her, his concern evident. "But... is that what you want to do?"

"I don't know," Anna said, admitting her own uncertainty and seeking comfort in his presence. Snuggling closer, she leaned into his side. "Today, when we were walking..."

He hummed, urging the blonde to continue.

"... you thought you saw Pembrook," she concluded, referring to the fact that he had almost completely frozen up that morning and been distant.

A heavy silence hung in the air, Callen feeling torn between not wanting to seem weak and wanting to be honest with Anna. After a long moment, Callen managed to find the courage to speak. "Yeah," he finally admitted. So much was conveyed by that single word and he knew that Anna had heard it. I'm struggling. I'm hurt, scared, confused, and struggling.

"You're going to find him, aren't you?" she asked after a moment, acknowledging his need to find some closure, to face the person who'd broken a part of him.

His brows furrowed, seeking some reassurance. "But?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty colouring his tone.

Anna's eyes held a mixture of compassion and wisdom. "So many things, impossible things, had to go right for us to be able to sit here, like this, together, in this house."

A flicker of levity danced in his eyes. "That happens to be very close to a great coffee shop, by the way," he added, attempting to lighten the mood.

The memory of the blonde's silliness during the walk that morning washed over them, causing the both of them to start chuckling.

Her voice carried a blend of tenderness and candidness. "Things are good now," Anna pointed out. "Maybe we deserve things to be good for a moment."

With a playful glint in his eyes, Callen broke the silence that had fallen between them. "You're right. So, enough serious talk for now. Let's enjoy the rest of the evening."

Anna smiled, chuckling softly. "I couldn't agree more."

They clinked their wine glasses together, savouring the present moment and the joy they found in each other's company. Everything wasn't magically fixed, but for now, Callen was going to enjoy the reprieve from the weight of his past.

Chapter 25: Reaching Out

The sun cast a gentle glow over their new Spanish-style bungalow in Venice as Callen and Anna sat out in the backyard, the warm breeze carrying the scent of ocean air. Callen's fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of his lawn chair, a clear sign of the former C.I.A officer's inner restlessness.

Anna's voice broke through the silence, her gaze filled with understanding. "Callen, you really need to do something about these nightmares," she said firmly. "You're sleeping, even less than usual for you, and it's not healthy."

His eyes met Anna's, his stoic demeanour faltering ever so slightly. He recognized the truth in his fiancée's words, but she made it sound so simple. It wasn't. He also knew deep down that he couldn't keep ignoring it although he wanted to.

Callen let out a heavy sigh, his voice tinged with reluctance. "I know," he admitted, his tone a little weary. "But I'm dealing with it."

Anna's expression softened, her eyes filled with empathy. She reached out and placed her hand on his, offering support. "Callen, maybe it's time to consider reaching out to Nate again," Anna suggested, her tone rather direct. "He's helped you before, and he already knows the basics."

Callen's gaze shifted, his mind grappling with the idea of opening up about everything. He did trust Nate, more than most, but therapy still majorly rubbed him the wrong way. The vulnerability that it entailed was slightly daunting, but deep down, he also knew that Anna was right. He had to do something.

After a moment of contemplation, he met his fiancée's gaze once again. "Alright," he conceded, his voice resolute. "I'll reach out to Nate and see if he's available."

Her smile conveyed a mixture of relief and pride. She squeezed his hand gently, her touch offering reassurance. "I'm proud of you, Grisha," she stated sincerely. "Now go make that phone call."

With Anna's support bolstering his resolve, he reached for his phone and dialled Nate's number. He waited anxiously as the phone rang, his mind flooded with memories of their sessions over the years when Nate was with his OSP unit full-time. When Nate answered, he greeted the operational phycologist in his usual reserved manner.

"Hey, Nate, it's Callen," he said when the call connected, his voice steady but laced with a hint of apprehension. "I was wondering if you're available today for a chat."

Nate's reply was warm and reassuring, his voice offering a sense of comfort. "It's good to hear from you, Callen," Nate replied. "And I have a few openings today, actually. Let's find a time that works for both of us."

He and Nate discussed available times, settling on a session early that morning. With the appointment scheduled, he felt a mix of nerves and hope. Taking a breath, he then dialled Admiral Kilbride's number.

As he waited for the call to connect, he took a deep breath. "Hey, Admiral, it's Callen," he began, his voice steady and determined. "I need to take a personal day. I have an appointment I need to go to."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line before Admiral Kilbride replied. "That's fine," the man replied, his voice carrying a subtle tone of knowing. "Over the years, I have lost quite a few good sailors and Marines to a thing called PTSD. All the same to you, I'd just as soon not lose any more people. Take all the time you need."

Callen's brow furrowed slightly, catching the underlying implication in Kilbride's words. It seemed that Kilbride had some understanding of the nature of the appointment, and the man's reaction only reinforced Callen's decision to try and get help.

"Yeah," he replied, trying to keep his emotions in check. "Thanks, Admiral."

With the call concluded, Callen pocketed his phone, his thoughts a mix of anticipation and apprehension. The time had come. Part of him wanting to back out, he made his way to NCISRA Los Angeles in the heart of downtown.

He was familiar enough with the large NCISRA Los Angeles building that it didn't take Callen long at all to locate the room he wanted.

As Callen stood outside the office door labelled Dr. Nate Getz, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation that he was about to have. With Anna's love and support in mind, he pushed the door open and stepped into the office.

He entered Nate's office for only the second time, his stoic expression firmly in place, his eyes scanning the familiar surroundings with a cautious reserve. The office, in his opinion, was reminiscent of a day spa. The walls were adorned with artwork depicting serene landscapes, and gentle lighting cast a warm glow.

Standing on ceremony, he tried to mentally prepare himself. Moments later, the door opened and the psychologist emerged with a warm smile.

"Callen," the operational psychologist said, greeting him warmly. "Welcome back. It's good to see you again." Nate gestured to the mini coffee bar. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?" The man added the next part as a joke. "Herbal tea?"

He rolled his eyes. "So, still running a day spa, I see?"

"That's the plan," Nate quipped before gesturing for him to take a seat.

He settled onto the couch, his posture slightly guarded, his demeanour showing hints of resistance. Nate took his seat across from him, the man's presence calm and patient. "So, how have things been since we last spoke?

Callen took a moment before he spoke. "Therapy has never been my thing, Nate. But Anna's right, I can't keep ignoring this," he admitted, his voice reflecting a mixture of reluctance and acceptance.

Nate arched a brow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Therapy has never been your thing, huh, Callen?" the man remarked with a chuckle. "I never would've guessed after knowing you for almost fifteen years."

Callen smirked, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Yeah, well, I guess some things never change," he replied, his tone lightening slightly.

Nate shook his head, amused, before his expression became expectant. "So, how have things been since we talked?" he asked, trying to invite Callen to open up.

He forced himself to calmly meet Nate's gaze. "It's been... hard," Callen admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of reluctance. "But I've been handling it." He forced himself to relax and start with a slightly easier segue into the mess. "You know, the cover story growing up was that I had Dyslexia."

Nate leaned back in his chair, his demeanour relaxed even as slight curiosity played on his face. "Dyslexia, huh? That must have been confusing and frustrating."

Callen shrugged. "You get used to it, but it sucked. I was already the weird foster kid and people used the Dyslexia label as a way to mock me."

"Can you tell me more about that?" Nate pressed.

His gaze shifted slightly, his voice carrying a mix of frustration and resilience. "Being labelled as dyslexic made me an easy target, I guess."

Nate's expression turned sympathetic, his tone understanding. "Being labelled as dyslexic, even falsely, and facing teasing can be challenging. How'd you handle those experiences growing up?"

He leaned forward slightly in his seat. "Mostly just let it happen. Well, until -" His voice trailed off as he thought back to when he was in the foster home with Raymond Lewis and that whole mess.

"Until what?" Nate pressed, his curiosity evidently piqued.

Callen paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on a distant memory. He then continued, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "Until my foster brother, Ray, stepped in. He couldn't stand seeing me being picked on day after day. One day, he confronted the main bully on my behalf. He fought back after trying to convince me to."

Nate leaned forward, his eyes focused on Callen, sensing the significance of this event. "What happened after that?"

Callen's gaze dropped momentarily, his tone becoming more sombre. "Ray ended up getting in trouble for what he did. He went to juvie which I felt bad about."

Nate's expression turned compassionate, understanding the weight of the situation. "That must have been difficult for you, seeing the consequences of standing up for yourself."

He nodded, a mix of emotions flickering across his face. "It was a turning point for me. I realized I couldn't let others fight my battles, had to take care of things myself."

Nate's nodded, listening intently. "And did you?"

His features hardened slightly, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "I did. From that point on, I started standing up for myself. Unfortunately, that led to me being placed with a new family a few weeks later when I got into a fight."

Nate leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "It's clear that you've grown from those experiences. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to sort of redirect to the main thing I'd like to touch upon: your time in Drona."

"Alright." His features tightened, a slight guardedness returning to his gaze. "Uh, I've been remembering more and more." He gave a small sigh. "That is, uh, actually why Anna suggested I call you."

Nate eyed him. "Nightmares?"

He gave a curt nod. "Usually, or something triggers a flashback."

Nate nodded, his tone calm and reassuring. "Nightmares and flashbacks are both to be expected given your situation." The psychologist's expression shifted slightly. "You just have to make sure you're addressing and managing them. What sort of things are you remembering exactly?"

He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting as he accessed those memories from his time at Drona. "I remember getting hit for failing," Callen admitted, his voice laced with a mixture of bitterness and resignation. "They used physical punishment as a way to enforce discipline and obedience. It wasn't just me; we all went through it."

Nate's expression tightened slightly, his empathy evident. "Physical punishment can be quite traumatizing, especially when used as a means of control and coercion."

He nodded, his eyes fixed on a distant point. "There was also enhanced interrogation training," he replied, his voice growing quieter. "We were all subjected to pain, were trained to endure it."

Nate leaned forward, his voice filled with compassion. "How did you cope with the challenges of enduring such training?"

Callen’s eyes flickered with a mixture of resilience and weariness. "I had to compartmentalize," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of detachment. "To dissociate from the pain and focus on the task at hand."

Nate leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding in a measured tone. "The use of physical punishment and endurance training as methods of control is deeply troubling," he said, his voice carrying a hint of concern. "Such experiences can inflict long-lasting harm, both physically and psychologically."

"Yeah, it messes with you," he admitted, his voice carrying a weight of bitterness. "It's been hard to shake off the memories."

Nate nodded, his empathy evident. "I can only imagine the impact it has had on your sense of self and your ability to trust," he replied, his voice filled with understanding. "Enduring pain and being trained to withstand it goes against our natural instincts for self-preservation."

His features tightened, his eyes reflecting years of suppressed emotions. "Surviving in that environment required shutting down certain parts of myself," he acknowledged, his voice tinged with a touch of resignation. "We were told not to feel, that feelings caused pain. That it was just a state of mind."

Nate's gaze remained focused, his expression understanding. "Being told not to feel, to suppress your emotions, is a common strategy used in such environments," he said, his voice empathetic. "It's a way to control and manipulate individuals, making them believe that vulnerability and expressing emotions are signs of weakness."

Callen's jaw tensed, a flicker of anger crossing his eyes. "They made sure we believed it," he replied, his voice tinged with a mix of resentment and determination. "Feelings were a liability, something that could be exploited."

Nate nodded. "It's understandable why you developed those coping mechanisms," he said, his tone steady. "They helped you survive in that demanding environment. But now, outside of that context, you need to reevaluate those beliefs and find healthier ways to navigate your emotions."

"I'm tired of living with that conditioning," Callen admitted, this conversation starting to feel a bit easier. "I just want to put this all behind me."

Nate leaned forward, his voice gentle yet firm. "Breaking free from that conditioning is possible, Callen," Nate stated, reassuring him. "I’d even say you’ve already begun doing so. It takes time and effort, but with the right support, you can definitely do it."

A spark of determination shone in Callen's eyes as he nodded.

Nate leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "There's one more thing I'd like to address before we finish here," the operational psychologist said, his voice calm and measured. "If you're comfortable, I'd like to delve further into the abuse that you endured in the training program."

Callen's stoic facade remained intact, his guarded gaze meeting Nate's with a hint of resignation. He took a deep breath, preparing himself to revisit the painful memories. With a nod, he silently conveyed his readiness to share.

Nate leaned forward, his tone steady yet empathetic. "It seems that the goal at Drona was to suppress your emotions, to make you shut down and not feel," he stated, his voice carrying a touch of sadness. "Can you describe how they enforced this, and how it affected you?"

Callen's jaw tightened, the memories weighing heavily on his shoulders. "They wanted us to be emotionless, to strip away any vulnerability," he replied, his voice tinged with bitterness. "They used fear, intimidation, and punishment to make us believe that feelings were a liability, something that would only bring pain and harm."

Nate nodded, his eyes filled with understanding. "It's clear that they wanted to control and manipulate you by conditioning you to suppress your emotions," he affirmed, his voice firm yet compassionate. "But emotions are an essential part of being human, and suppressing them can have long-lasting effects on your well-being."

Callen nodded, unable to argue with that statement.

"If you're comfortable," Nate said, "I'd like you to share a specific event at Drona that stands out in your memory."

Callen's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of hesitation crossing his gaze. He took a moment to gather himself, his voice measured but revealing a glimpse of vulnerability. "There's this one messed up incident," he began, his voice carrying a mix of frustration and determination. "It happened during a one-on-one Interrogations class with Pembrook, one of the main instructors.”

Nate nodded, his gaze focused and attentive, signalling for Callen to continue.

"He had me place my hand in a metal contraption," he continued, his voice tinged with anger. "Then he went and hit all my fingertips with a damn mallet."

Nate's brows furrowed, his expression concerned. "That's definitely messed up," the operational psychologist responded, his voice filled with empathy. "It must have been intensely painful and distressing."

Callen's jaw clenched, his voice carrying a hardened edge as he delved deeper into the memory. "But what really got to me was when Pembrook reminded me not to cry," he said, his voice laced with a mix of indignation and lingering hurt. "I was around eight years old. I remember genuinely asking him in the midst of that how to stop myself from crying." He shook his head. "I wanted the man's approval, his acknowledgment that I was tough enough to endure it."

"Callen," Nate began, his voice gentle yet firm. "No child should have to endure what you went through. And your response to Pembrook was a natural reaction to the environment you were in. You were just a child trying to survive."

"You're damn right!" Callen snapped, not bothering to hide his anger at that moment. We were children. "And Hetty, she -" He started playing with his face. "She used me. She wanted to turn me into a super agent."

"I hear your anger and frustration," Nate acknowledged, his voice steady. "Hetty made a major decision that came at a great cost to you, regardless of how involved she was or wasn't in the day-to-day training."

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

Nate leaned forward, meeting his gaze with unwavering support. "It's natural to feel a mix of emotions when someone you trusted seems complicit in your abuse."

He sighed heavily. "Honestly, as much as I want to fight it... Hetty's been a huge part of my life. She's been there from the beginning," he said. "I thought I could turn and just... I could move on with my life, but... I can't do it. I just can't."

Nate tilted his head slightly "Any particular reason why?"

"I believe there's more to the story," he admitted. "And I need her to tell it."

Nate nodded, listening intently to him as he spoke.

"I need to give her one more chance to tell it, from start to finish," he continued. "No more... secrets. No more lies. I... If I don't then it'll always be there, hanging over me. I need answers."

Nate's expression was thoughtful. "I understand," he responded, his voice empathetic yet cautious. "Hetty has played a significant role in your life, and it's difficult to let go of that connection, especially when you believe there's more to the story."

Callen nodded. "She took me in at fifteen, and saved me from completely destroying my life. I can't just dismiss it, pretend it didn't happen," he admitted. "But it's difficult to reconcile the the two Hettys."

Nate nodded, a hint of understanding in his eyes. "Reconciling the different sides of someone, especially when they've played such pivotal roles in our lives, can be very challenging," Nate acknowledged, his voice calm yet empathetic. "It's natural to feel conflicted, to grapple with the image of Hetty as both a saviour and a participant in the trauma you experienced."

Callen's shoulders sagged, the weight of his emotions palpable. "I trusted her, Nate," he said, his voice heavy with a mix of disappointment and longing. "She was there for me when no one else was. But now… I don't know."

Nate nodded, his expression compassionate. "Trust is a delicate thing, and when it's broken or called into question, it can shake the very foundations of our relationships," the operational psychologist remarked. "You have the right to the truth, Callen, and by allowing Hetty one more chance to share her side of the story, you're taking a huge step toward finding the closure and clarity you deserve."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "If she ever makes it back."

Nate leaned back in his chair, a sense of satisfaction evident on his face. "I think that's a good stopping point for today, Callen," he said, his voice gentle yet decisive. "We've covered a lot of ground. I'd like to pick this up again soon, though."

He nodded, acknowledging the progress they had made in the session. "Yeah, I think I could use some time to process everything," he admitted, his voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and determination. "But I appreciate your support, Nate."

Nate smiled warmly at him, showing his genuine care for Callen's well-being. "Always, Callen. And remember, healing's a journey, and it takes time. Reach out whenever you need to talk. You're not alone in this process."

He stood up and shook Nate's hand before giving the operational psychologist a nod of gratitude and taking his leave.

Chapter 26: Glory of the Sea

The next couple of weeks were rather hectic in more ways than one. An incident with Aiden's plane going down during a test had led to a whole incident, although that had, thankfully been resolved. He was also now throwing himself into trying to track down Howard Pembrook and Hetty. Despite his best efforts to remain focused, he couldn't help but find it challenging to fully invest himself in the wedding preparations with Anna. The weight of his past and the uncertainty surrounding Hetty's absence lingered within him, dampening his enthusiasm. Largely due to the reason he'd admitted to Nate during their last session.

However, the conversation Sam had also urged him to have with Anna ended up being a turning point for them: "I think you're keeping Anna in the dark about what's going on, and whatever it is, she'll understand. But you have to give her a chance."

As the man so often was, Sam was completely correct. So, getting off work, he bought dinner for himself and Anna and had an honest conversation about where his head was at with Hetty, the wedding, and everything.

"I love you," he assured her. "And I would marry you tomorrow. But if we are going to have a wedding... we have to do it the right way. And we need to be surrounded by... everyone that means everything to us. Our friends. And Arkady." Callen waited for a beat before saying the final name. "And Hetty."

"You could have told me that sooner," Anna replied, her voice tinged with hurt.

"And I should've," he agreed. "I... I've just already made so many excuses to push off our future. I-I didn't... I didn't want to make her one more."

Anna's expression softened, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Sounds like she is one now," she stated bluntly, her words cutting through the air.

"Yeah. No, you're, uh... you're right," he confessed. "I..." He sighed, the weight of his conflicting emotions pressing down on him. "Look, as much as I want to fight it... Hetty's a huge part of my life. She has been there from the beginning. I thought I could turn and just... we could move on with our lives, but..." He gave another small sigh. "I can't do it."

Anna looked slightly puzzled, mixed with a tinge of hurt for not opening up earlier. He was just relieved there was no accusation in her eyes. She said, "Callen, why, after all she's done, all the lies, why do you still care?"

"Because I believe there's more to the story," he admitted softly. " And I need her to tell it. I need to give her one more chance to tell it, from start to finish. No more secrets. No more lies. I... If I don't do this, there will always be another person in the room. I am not asking for a lot of time."

"Too bad," she replied, momentarily confusing him. "'Cause I'm giving it to you." She stepped forward and cupped his face in her hands. "Callen, I want to marry you. And nothing you can say or do is going to change that."

"Anna, I promise you..." he started.

"No," she said with a shake of the head. "The only thing I want you to promise is that you'll keep being honest with me. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

"I will," he promised.

His fiancée nodded, giving him a small smile. "Good."

He actually managed to sleep properly that night and he had to admit that Sam was right about him talking to Anna. They were back on the same page and there wasn't this weird gap between them like there had been; Anna had actually asked him at one point if he wanted to bail on the wedding, which made him feel horrible. So, they had really needed to have that conversation, to clear the air.

The morning sun cast a warm glow in the kitchen as Anna, her hair still slightly tousled from their earlier six-mile run, eagerly placed another one of her favourite bagels into the toaster. The aroma of freshly toasted bread filled the room and he watched Anna with amusement while he poured himself a second cup of coffee.

"You know, Honey, I think you have a love for bagels that rivals any New Yorker," he remarked, a playful smirk on his face.

Anna chuckled, her smile matching his own. "What can I say? Bagels are my breakfast weakness, Grisha. They're like little circles of joy that make my mornings complete."

The toaster popped, and Anna grabbed her now golden and crispy bagel. She swiftly started to spread a generous amount of cream cheese on it. "Mmm, it's like a little piece of breakfast heaven."

Callen took a sip of his coffee, having already finished his breakfast, savouring the rich aroma before he spoke. "You know, before I met you, I can't remember the last time I actually ate a bagel."

Her eyes shone with amusement as she took a bite of her bagel. "Yeah, well, I guess I've managed to convert you into a bagel enthusiast."

Callen leaned against their kitchen counter, a playful glint in his eyes. "Maybe, but I'm drawing the line at those baby food smoothies you and Sam like."

She laughed, the sound filling the room with joy. "Hey, I was nice today. Just bagels and good coffee." Anna then arched a brow. "I also seem to recall someone changing course yesterday and being the one to buy the smoothies."

He gave an amused little hum. "Fair point." With a contented smile, he then steered the conversation toward a slightly more serious topic. "Have you thought any more about what you want to do about work?"

Anna paused for a moment, reconsidering her options. "Part of me is leaning towards getting my P.I licence," she admitted, "but I haven't actually decided yet."

Callen nodded and gave her a look of understanding. "You've definitely got the time to decide, but I think you'd make an excellent P.I."

She smiled warmly at him. "Thank you, Callen."

Arriving at the office later that morning, however, he found that Sam's morning hadn't started as smoothly as his own. He seemed to be dealing with a small personal crisis, likely involving the Colonel. Approaching his partner at the end of the carport, Callen asked, "Hey, everything okay?"

"Thanks, Captain," Sam said into his phone. "I'm just glad the damage was low. Yeah, I spoke to him. The neighbour's going to check on him now. Thank you."

"What's that all about?" he asked once Sam finally hung up.

"Fire department," Sam explained. "My dad's on his own this morning, forgot his steak and eggs on the stove."

"Is he all right?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

Sam nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "He's fine," his partner assured him. "He's just a little embarrassed."

He eyed his partner. "Boy, you really do need help."

Sam shot him a pointed look. "I gotta figure this thing out, G."

"So, what is that now, three caretakers and one adult daycare jailbreak?" he asked.

"But who's counting?" Sam replied.

He couldn't help but ask, "How do you go from commanding a battalion to suddenly needing a caretaker?" The loss of independence would suck.

"Kicking and screaming, that's how!" Sam replied. He started leading the way into the building, Callen following closely behind. "Speaking of kicking and screaming, did you get in touch with the suit guy yet?"

"Trust me," he replied, "I don't need your guy."

"Trust me, you do!" Sam insisted. "I'm not gonna be standing up there next to a sad-looking groom."

Teasingly, Callen responded, "Oh, that's cute! You think you're gonna be in the wedding party."

Sam's seriousness became more evident as he replied, "I'm not playing, G. This guy's backed up. Gonna need to give him some lead time, so I can give him some direction."

He replied nonchalantly, "Uh-huh."

Curious about Callen's plans, Sam inquired, "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I'm just gonna grab something that's hanging in wardrobe," he admitted, indicating the wardrobe area with his hand. "We got a lot of good suits over there."

"You're joking," Sam replied in disbelief, taking a seat down at his desk.

He shot his partner a pointed look. I'm being serious.

Sam's initial surprise shifted to incredulity. "You're not joking. Why don't you just get married in the bullpen while you're at it?"

Perplexed, Callen furrowed an eyebrow, not really seeing the issue. "What?" he asked, gesturing vaguely towards the wardrobe area. "There's a lot of nice suits over there."

"Yeah," his partner agreed rather sarcastically, "with gunpowder and blood and whatever else blended into the fabric."

Completely unfazed, he reassured his partner, "I will have it dry-cleaned beforehand. Twice. I promise you."

"Hetty'll kill you if you do that," Sam pointed out.

Settling into his desk chair, he replied with a hint of irritation. "Yeah, well, she'd have to come out of hiding first."

Sam leaned across his desk, eyeing him. "Look, I gave you the guy's information, why don't you just let him sort you out?"

Feeling a mix of reluctance and skepticism, he let out a sigh. "At what price?"

His partner's eyes twinkled mischievously as he made him a lighthearted offer. "Don't worry about it, it'll be my wedding gift. I'll take up a collection."

He shot his partner a playful grin. "Oh?"

"Yeah," his partner quipped. "I'm just not sure if the guy will even take you because he's used to a certain type of clientele."

Leaning back in his chair slightly, his curiosity was piqued. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed.

"What kind of clientele is that, exactly?" he inquired.

With a smirk, Sam responded without skipping a beat, "The kind that doesn't walk down the aisle with a suit full of bullet holes."

As the banter came to a lighthearted pause, Callen's cell phone buzzed in his pocket, signalling a new message. Retrieving it, he saw a message from Fatima. He glanced over at Sam and said, "Caught a case."

Callen's cell phone started buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw a message from Fatima. He eyed Sam. "Caught a case."

"After you," Sam replied, quickly getting to his feet.

Callen and Sam swiftly left their desks, their footsteps echoing as they made their way toward the Operations Centre to get briefed on their latest case. The office was abuzz with activity, despite the team being a body down, as field agents and various support personnel focused on their tasks. He'd already approved a personal day for Deeks as the guy was helping his mother look for places in the city, but that didn't mean work stopped for the rest of them.

Chapter 27: Transmit/Receive

Team gathering up in the Operations Centre, the room hummed with the soft whirring of computers. Fatima, with a few taps on the keyboard, pulled up a Military I.D photo and a U.S. Navy Officer Record Brief on the large screen, projecting the information for the team to see. The absence of Roundtree didn't go unnoticed by anyone, and Kensi glanced around the room, her eyes landing on Callen. "Where's Rountree?"

"He's probably still downstairs, chatting away with Pete about that case they recently worked together," he remarked with a knowing smile, recalling similar occasions when they had teamed up in the past. Hell, at one point Pete and the man's partner Melissa had arrested him for shooting Janvier. He'd gone out for drinks with Pete and Melissa, after that. Peter "Pete" Campbell was another team leader for OSP and Roundtree had lent him a hand, pulling an all-night stakeout with Pete at Camp Pendleton, while the man's main field team caught up on some much-needed sleep.

Kensi gave a little hum at that, likely remembering their prior collaborations over the years and the rapport they had built as a result.

"Early this morning, Rear Admiral Ted Gordon was abducted from his home," Fatima started. The field agents all watched intently as the video surveillance footage of the abduction played on the screen. The room fell into tense silence as they watched two masked men forcefully dragging the Admiral into a white van. Callen's eyes narrowed as he studied the screen intently, trying to glean any possible details from the footage. "A neighbour heard a struggle and saw two masked suspects dragging him into a van. They caught some of it on their security camera, but I couldn't pull the plates."

Sam was quick to address the obvious motive for the abduction. "Kidnappers typically want a ransom. Did they make any demands of the Admiral's family?"

"Well, he has none," Fatima said. "Never married, no kids. Couldn't find any extended relatives, either." So, he's your typical Military lifer. "He was recently on terminal leave in advance of his pending retirement."

He, knowing San was considering possible motives, decided to focus more on potential leads. If the Admiral has no family, was this a targeted abduction for classified Naval information? "Is he working on anything that could have made him a target?"

"So, Admiral Gordon works with Nautical Robotics Inc.," Fatima explained, having had the same train of thought earlier. "A civilian tech contractor in Pasadena that develops unmanned maritime technologies."

Kensi's curiosity was clearly piqued. She crossed her arms and turned to Fatima with a small smile playing on her lips. "So, underwater robots?"

"You know it," Fatima replied excitedly, projecting schematics of the latest project on the screen for them. "And, according to the Navy, they're currently working on a new fleet of ocean gliders."

"The Navy already deploys these for critical missions," Sam said, having seen these technologies being used on occasion throughout his busy career. "They can do scientific research, catch drսg smugglers, deploy weapons."

Callen's expression hardened with concern and he crossed his arms. "Well, both the Russian and Chinese governments have already seized these in the past, claiming them to be spy boats."

"They're not wrong," Sam replied knowingly.

"I mean, it could be what's happening here," Kensi suggested after a moment. "Except instead of seizing the glider, they're seizing its engineer."

He had to agree with Kensi's train of thought. "Well, why steal a glider when you can just kidnap somebody and have them make one for you?"

"We need to talk to someone at Nautical Robotics," his partner said, moments before Callen would've made the same call. "Find out what could be compromised."

"Castor's picking up their head developer Jessie Fiore," Fatima informed them, quickly displaying the man's driver's license. "He's bringing him to the Boatshed."

Kensi quickly took initiative, something he thought was good for Fatima to see. The junior agent was quickly becoming more confident as well. "Okay," she said. "I'll, uh, take Roundtree and meet him there."

Callen was more than satisfied with her call, aware that Kensi and Roundtree made a solid pair. "Sam and I will head to the crime scene," he stated, ready to head into the field and delve into the investigation.

"Alright," Fatima said, trying to encourage them. "Go, team."

As the field agents all headed out, the Operations Centre fell into a focused hush, the soft hum of computers continuing in the background. The gravity of the investigation weighed on them all, but the agents knew they had to move swiftly to rescue Admiral Gordon and put a stop to a potential national security threat.

Hopping into Sam's black Hellcat, he and Sam began their drive out to Woodland Hills. Forty-five minutes later, they finally pulled up outside a dark orange and blue Spanish-style home.

Exiting the car, they made their way through the front yard, continuing a conversation that had started back when they had stopped to buy gas. "Listen, they have robots for everything. Ocean patrol, food delivery," Sam remarked, his tone tinged with a mix of wonder and amusement.

"I hear they even have robot babysitters for kids," Callen replied with a grin. "Won't be long before Robocop's a real thing."

"I wouldn't mind partnering up with Robocop," Sam replied.

"Well, you've got the same sense of humour!" Callen quipped.

"Heh, Robocop watching my dad, now that might be a thing," Sam said, amusement dancing in his eyes. As they walked up to the front door, they both flashed their NCIS shields to the green LAPD officer stuck standing guard who gave them a small nod of acknowledgment as they walked by.

Entering the house, Callen took a quick survey of the living room. It quickly became apparent as he glanced around that Admiral Gordon had dedicated his life to all things maritime. The house was covered in maritime paraphernalia. "Well, welcome to the National Maritime Museum," he remarked with a hint of playful sarcasm.

Sam chuckled as he glanced around the living room. "Wow, talk about a proud sailor. This guy has got antique compasses, telescopes. This stuff has got to be valuable."

While his partner examined the maritime treasures, he checked out another quadrant of the room. Something then caught Sam's eye, and he couldn't help but exclaim, "Oh, come on. This can't be real."

Intrigued, he turned back toward his partner. "What do you got?"

"Ancient cannonballs," Sam replied, holding the heavy, spherical objects up for Callen to see. "This thing is heavy."

"Huh," he mused, taking a few steps toward Sam to get a closer look.

His partner hummed thoughtfully.

Noticing a bookshelf that had clearly been disturbed, books scattered haphazardly, he said, "Oof." He approached the bookshelf, inspecting the giant mess. "Looks like they were digging around, looking for something in these bookshelves. What do you think, maybe a key to a safe, a gun?"

"Or paperwork," his partner suggested, flipping through some papers he found on the Admiral's desk. "Maybe they thought they'd find the schematics to the glider."

"But when they discovered they weren't here..." he interjected.

"Or if he refused to cooperate..." Sam continued.

"They take him away," he finished, his voice serious. "Try to force him to talk."

"Yup," Sam agreed, picking up another stack of papers to search through.

As Callen's eyes roamed the room, something on a small table a few feet away caught his attention. He walked over and picked it up, revealing a beautifully crafted wooden Barque ship. Intriguingly, several of the sails were adorned with various light-brown dots, and there was writing on the front. "Check this out," he called to Sam. Waiting for his partner to approach, he then asked, "You notice anything?"

"Excellent craftsmanship," Sam noted.

He pointed to the front of the ship. "SOS." Callen then gestured to the myriad of sails with the light-brown dots. "Look at the sails. You seeing that?"

"Yeah," his partner replied, his curiosity now piqued. "That's Morse code."

He nodded in confirmation, recognizing the Morse code patterns almost immediately. The sight of the dots on the model ship also brought back a memory from his early childhood when he had first learned Morse code.

Nine-year-old Callen was sitting attentively at his desk in the Codebreaking classroom three weeks into the new school year. Mr. Pembrook stood before him, holding a piece of paper with several Morse code patterns written on it. Callen felt a mix of nerves and determination but was ready to showcase his skills to his strict head teacher. He felt rather prepared for this one.

"Seventeen, now it's your turn," Mr. Pembrook stated, his tone commanding, the edge of harshness evident even in the moment. Callen's heart skipped a beat, his nerves momentarily getting the better of him.

Taking a deep breath, Callen reminded himself to stay focused. He had been practicing Morse code diligently, wanting to be as prepared as possible for the test. He actually found Morse Code fun in a way as well, but he knew that Mr. Pembrook had very little patience for anything less than excellence. Failing to meet Mr. Pembrook's standards would result in not only harsh words but also potential punishment.

As Mr. Pembrook presented the sequences, Callen's eyes fixed on the paper, absorbing the patterns. He noticed the rigid set of Mr. Pembrook's jaw, a clear sign that the man was assessing his every move with an unyielding gaze.

With steady hands, he began tapping out the signals on his desk, decoding the various messages accurately. The room seemed to hold its breath as Mr. Pembrook watched Callen's performance, his expression impassive.

As the testing session progressed, Callen's composure remained intact, even when he was faced with more challenging codes to decipher. Callen approached each sequence calmly, relying on his practice and concentration to succeed. He knew that showing any sign of weakness or hesitation would only invite Mr. Pembrook's harsh critique.

Mr. Pembrook, although not one to offer praise easily, gave a curt nod of approval at Callen's performance during the unit test. "Good," he acknowledged, something in the man's voice that Callen couldn't quite read.

Callen's heart swelled with pride, and he couldn't quite hold back a smile. He'd shown Mr. Pembrook what he was capable of, and it felt like a small victory in the rigorous world that he'd been thrown into in January of the prior school year.

With the test finished, Callen leaned back in his chair with a sense of accomplishment and relief that he hadn't messed up. He also noticed a shift in the atmosphere of the room. The other Drona subjects seemed to be reacting differently, their expressions a mix of admiration and envy towards him. Some of them looked almost desperate to please Mr. Pembrook as well, to earn the same rare praise that he had just received.

As the class continued, Mr. Pembrook's tone became almost hypnotic. The man started to discuss the importance of loyalty and dedication, emphasizing how their skills were essential for the country's security and protection and it was their purpose, their duty, their privilege. He listened intently, feeling a strange pull to believe in Mr. Pembrook's words, an odd mix of admiration and discomfort.

Focusing back on the present, he heard Sam speak. "This could be a message," his partner said thoughtfully." Sam then indicated one of the sails. "That first one's an 'I.'"

He pointed to another sail. "Well, that's an 'N.'"

Sam indicated another sail. "'S.'"

He pointed to yet another sail. "Another 'I.'"

Sam gestured to the last two symbols. "'D,' 'E.'"

The two agents exchanged a knowing look and then said the message in unison. With any luck, this meant they'd caught a break. "Inside."

He was honestly happy that he hadn't disappeared after Hetty just yet. Using a steak knife Sam had grabbed him from the kitchen, he pried open the model ship, revealing an object tucked inside – a journal.

"Admiral Gordon went to a lot of trouble to hide this," he mused. It's like he made his own little private security system.

"And he went to a lot of trouble to make sure it was found," Sam immediately added, his voice lightly tinged with intrigue.

"So, who was he hoping would find it?" he inquired. It's a fail-safe; the Admiral wanted the right person to find it. But who?

Curiosity getting the better of him, he began flipping through Admiral Gordon's journal and found himself completely engrossed in it. It quickly became evident that Admiral Gordon's true passion was treasure hunting, and he had been obsessively researching a Spanish Galleon that had sunk in 1602. The ship was believed to have been carrying valuable treasure onboard when it had gone down, and Admiral Gordon had been quite intent on locating the shipwreck.

Completing their search of Admiral Gordon's home, the partners headed out, making a pit stop for lunch on their way back to OSP. Callen was quietly absorbed in reading the Admiral's journal throughout the drive, much to Sam's amusement.

But seriously, a treasure hunt? Just when he believed he had experienced every twist and turn this job could throw at him. This job certainly keeps you on your toes.

Chapter 28: Proven Clever Enough

Getting a phone call in the carport just outside of OSP, Kensi briefed Callen and Sam on the information they got out of their witness, Jessie Fiore. Apparently, Admiral Gordon's project wasn't as secretive as they initially thought. He had recently done a public interview with techno-social media influencer Marcus Moore. The interview had received full approval beforehand and seemed perfectly harmless in both Fatima and Admiral Kilbride's estimation from watching it.

During that interview, the Admiral never revealed any significant intel. He gave vague and basic answers that didn't disclose much about the underwater gliders or his team's operations. Despite Admiral Gordon handling the interview well, it could have still put the Admiral on somebody's radar. And it looked like the day right after the interview that Marcus Moore flew to China and, as an American cybersecurity firm claimed, met with a group of Chinese state-sponsored hackers.

They needed to find Admiral Gordon fast, so Fatima found out the Admiral had made several calls to a woman named Meredith Huxley, a librarian at the L.A. Public Library - specifically in the maps department. Kensi and Roundtree were already both en route to the aforementioned library.

Walking through the front doors of OSP a few minutes later, Callen had already found himself once again engrossed in Admiral Gordon's very detailed journal, searching for any potential clues that might help in their rescue mission.

Sam dipped his head slightly as their Operations Manager showed up right outside of the tunnel entrance, having just walked down the staircase. "Admiral."

The Admiral followed them to their desks, his eyes drawn to the journal Callen was holding. "Looks like a good book," he remarked casually.

"Oh, yeah!" Sam replied, taking a seat at his desk. "He can't get enough of it."

"I'm that way about Mann's Heat 2," the Admiral said. "You reading Heat 2?"

"It's Admiral Gordon's journal," he explained. "I found it at the crime scene."

Admiral Kilbride hummed thoughtfully.

"The abductors went through the place good," his partner said. "They were looking for something." Sam pointed to the book in his hands. "Might have been this journal."

He cleared his throat and then began to read one of the passages aloud. 'I've written this book as a guide to my adventure in case anything should happen to me. If you are reading this, I must be in distress, and you have proven clever enough to render aid. That is, if I'm still alive.'

"So, first his model ship, then this journal," Sam observed. "It's like he set up his own little security system with codes and riddles."

He nodded in agreement.

"Yeah," the Admiral agreed, "but what's he securing?"

His partner exchanged a bemused and skeptical glance, scoffing at the idea Callen was about to share with their boss.

"Buried treasure," Callen eagerly explained. "This is all about a Spanish galleon that wrecked in 1602. The survivors buried silver, gold, and precious jewels somewhere in Southern California."

"I'm beginning to understand why this guy never married," Admiral Kilbride quipped as he approached Callen, reaching out for the journal. "May I?"

"So, Admiral Gordon had his heart set on buried treasure," his partner said pointedly. "Why record it in this journal?"

"Why does anybody record anything?" he countered. "To prove it exists."

"And to make sure it remains," Admiral Kilbride added, studying the journal intently.

"I have a friend, he's a retired Navy diver, works in an ocean salvage company in Florida. Always looking for shipwrecks and treasure," Sam commented. "Hasn't found anything yet."

"Well, it doesn't mean it's not out there," he remarked. He didn't necessarily think that the Admiral would find any treasure but he also wasn't about to say it didn't exist.

Admiral Kilbride turned to a page in the journal with what looked to be just a bunch of waves drawn on it. "Ah, I see the admiral is quite the artist as well."

"Looks like some of it was ripped out," he observed, pointing to the top-right corner of the page where there was a square-shaped hole.

His partner rose to his feet and moved for a better look. "That's not a rip, that's a cut," Sam corrected. "A very precise one."

"Well, if this journal is what the admiral's abductors were after," Admiral Kilbride said, "let's find out why." The man then placed the journal down on Callen's desk and began to make his way over to where Agents Castor and Campbell were both talking shop.

His partner eyed him in disbelief. "Either we're looking for criminals who are targeting the Navy's maritime technology..." Sam mused.

"Or... we're on a treasure hunt," he finished, a glint of excitement in his eyes. Sitting down at his desk, Callen pulled out a lollypop from his drawer. Popping the candy into his mouth, he started flipping through Admiral Gordon's journal once more.

"I love hobbies just like the next guy," Sam said, taking a seat in the chair next to Callen's desk, "but, I mean, this is another level."

"This is more than a hobby, this is a mission!" he exclaimed, clearly impressed. As he continued flipping through the journal, he couldn't help but marvel at Admiral Gordon's dedication and highly meticulous research. "He-he has notes on the ship's manifest, its intended route back to Spain, he's even got the star chart from the year the ship went down."

"Alright, so this guy gets attacked by people who think he has the map in his house," his partner summarized.

"Right, they couldn't find it, so they forcibly abduct him, and think they can make him take them to it," he replied. "But Admiral Gordon's not giving it up."

"Alright," Sam acknowledged the seriousness of the situation. "Well, we better find out where he keeps this map, because if they torture Admiral Gordon to force him to talk, he could be in trouble. Or worse."

"He created a code to find this journal. What if he also created a code to find the map?" Callen suggested, his mind racing with possibilities. "I mean, this journal is dedicated to the galleon, its history, its captain, but there is only one mention..."

Sam hummed thoughtfully as Callen flipped to the page he needed, his mind drifting back to his early teen years.

"... one mention of the map, right here!" he said excitedly. "'The Lone Sailor can't see the treasure, but he looks to the map at his parallel dove.' It's a riddle."

"Of course it is," Sam commented with a hint of annoyance. "And in the time it takes us to figure that out, Admiral Gordon could be dead. I solve crimes, not riddles."

"Okay, well, this is both, and you happen to be very good at this stuff," Callen replied, confident in his partner's abilities. And I'm not too shabby myself. Between the two of us, we can figure it out.

As the bell rang, signalling that lunch was over, eleven-year-old Callen walked into the Codebreaking classroom. He instantly noticed Mr. Pembrook at the teacher's desk as well as the series of challenging riddles up on the chalkboard that had been written by the head teacher. The room was filled with his curious and expectant classmates, all wondering whose turn it was that afternoon to answer them.

"Seventeen," Mr. Pembrook's stern voice called out, grabbing Callen's attention. "It's your turn to answer the riddles on the board today."

"Yes, sir!" Callen responded crisply, his determination evident. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead, and walked up to the chalkboard. Callen liked the class more than some of the other ones but if he messed up in front of the entire class then it was going to be an exercise in humiliation.

"Let's begin," Mr. Pembrook announced, and Callen turned toward the chalkboard and picked up one of the pieces of chalk.

Riddle 1: "I am the silent watcher, gathering secrets in the night. Decipher my hidden gaze, and knowledge will be your guiding light."

Callen's mind raced as he carefully analyzed the riddle. He couldn't afford to make a mistake. With a steady hand, he wrote down his answer, "Surveillance."

Riddle 2: "I am the master of deception, leading you astray with glee. Unravel my misleading path, and spies will succeed undoubtedly."

Callen paused, contemplating his response. Misdirection? It seemed out of place among the other answers, but he trusted his instincts. "Misdirection," he said confidently.

Riddle 3: "I am the guardian of classified knowledge, locked with intricate design. Unlock my well-kept vault, and intelligence will be thine."

Chewing on the side of his lip, Callen knew he had to focus even harder. The pressure was on, and any misstep could cost him. He quickly wrote his answer. "Intelligence"

Riddle 4: "I am the unseen presence, moving swiftly through the night. Embrace my covert dance, and spies will be a force of might."

The final riddle posed the greatest challenge yet, and Callen could feel the weight of Mr. Pembrook's strict expectations. He knew he had to get it right. He carefully analyzed the words and the message they held. Time seemed to slow down as he wrote his last answer up on the board, "Stealth."

As the classroom fell silent, he stepped back to look at the chalkboard. The answers all went together to form a list: Surveillance, Misdirection, Intelligence, Stealth.

The room remained quiet as Mr. Pembrook quickly reviewed his answers, the tension palpable. The teacher raised an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised by his answer for Riddle 2 but that didn't last long.

Once Mr. Pembrook was done, he nodded curtly, his expression unchanged. "Alright, Seventeen. You've deciphered the riddles, and the message is clear: 'Surveillance, Misdirection, Intelligence, and Stealth' - these are essential elements of successful spying. Mastering them is imperative in the world of espionage."

A wave of relief and achievement washed over Callen as he realized that he had met Mr. Pembrook's strict expectations. Though the instructor's praise was subtle, it was still a rare acknowledgment of his abilities.

As the class continued, he returned to his seat, his mind still buzzing with satisfaction from doing well. To be honest, he found Codebreaking to be intriguing when he wasn't pressured. Amidst his contentment, he couldn't help but notice one of the other kids, Subject Twelve, struggling with her worksheet. Particularly the cyphers on the second page. The girl appeared to be working diligently, but she had fallen well behind where everyone else seemed to be.

Subject Twelve’s struggles were met with the all-too-familiar sternness and unforgiving demeanour from their teacher, and though part of Callen wanted to inwardly cringe, he refused to show any visible emotion as he watched the teacher deliver a sharp hit to the girl’s left hand. "Get to work, Twelve," Mr. Pembrook demanded, adding to the tense atmosphere in the room. "You need to learn to focus."

His partner's voice pulled him back to the present. "Let me see this thing," Sam said, reaching for the journal. "Let me just see this." Sam then started to reread the riddle aloud. "'The Lone Sailor can't see the treasure, but he looks to the map at his parallel dove.' I don't know." His partner handed the journal back to him. "I mean... it could be referring to the Lone Sailor statue. Symbolizes the Navy's mission to honour the men and women of the sea services."

"There's one in Long Beach," he pointed out. "Let's check it out."

"It's worth a shot," Sam agreed.

With that, the two field agents made their way back out to the carport to start the just over half-hour drive down to the U.S. Navy Memorial in Long Beach. One thing's for sure, today was going to be very interesting.

Chapter 29: Adventure Is Everywhere

Callen and Sam parked the Hellcat on the busy street, right next to the Lone Sailor statue. The imposing bronze figure of the Lone Sailor stood proudly, hands casually tucked in his pockets as he gazed out towards the Pacific Ocean. Despite the carefree posture, there was an air of determination about the sailor, a silent testament to the strength and resilience of those who served in the United States Navy.

As they stepped out of Sam's car, their eyes were instantly drawn to the iconic statue. The midday sun cast a warm glow on the sculpted features, giving the Lone Sailor a dignified and steadfast appearance. With his head held high and the ocean breeze ruffling his uniform, the statue seemed to embody the spirit of sailors who faced countless challenges with unwavering resolve.

"Alright, let's do this!" Sam's determined voice came through their comms. "Fatima, read it out loud to us one more time."

Fatima's voice came through the earpieces as she recited the riddle for the pair. 'The Lone Sailor can't see the treasure, but he looks to the map at his parallel dove.'

Callen pointed forward while turning to face his partner, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Well, he looks to the ocean."

"Which is south," Sam interjected. "I mean, a lot of people think it's west because it's the Pacific, but this is south."

"Okay, so we're at Ocean Boulevard and Paloma Avenue, and he's looking south to the Pacific Ocean," he mused aloud, trying to decipher the next part of Admiral Gordon's riddle. "South... at his parallel."

"Well, parallel is latitude," Sam stated, reaffirming his knowledge. "It's just a way to measure north-south coordinates."

"His latitude dove?" he replied, still feeling quite puzzled by the cryptic message.

"Wait, you guys are on Paloma Avenue, right?" Fatima asked, the junior agent's voice chiming in over both of their comms.

"Yeah," his partner confirmed.

"Paloma is the Spanish word for dove," Fatima pointed out.

"His latitude paloma," Callen stated, a spark of realization in his eyes as a piece of the puzzle fell into place.

"Fatima, what's the statue's latitude?" his partner asked.

Her fingers rapidly tapping on the keyboard, the junior agent informed them, "The approximate latitude is 33.76."

"Latitude Paloma," he said, something finally clicking for him. "3376 Paloma."

"Sounds like an address," Sam quickly deduced. "Fatima, is there a storage facility or something there? Anything?"

"Checking now," Fatima said, and the sound of her typing echoed in their ears. "No, no storage facility. It's a bookstore. Antique Mariner Books."

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "When this guy picks a theme..."

"He sticks to it," his partner finished, equally amused.

With their next lead and destination in hand, Callen turned around, ready to head back to the car. "Alright, we're on our way."

The two agents quickly returned to the black car and set off towards Antique Mariner Books, hoping the lead would actually pan out.

He and Sam pulled up directly outside the large cement building that housed Antique Mariner Books, a bookstore that held secrets of the past within its walls. To their left, across the street, stood a nice hotel with a grand façade, offering a sharp contrast to the unassuming exterior of the bookstore. The hotel's much more polished appearance hinted at luxury and comfort, a stark juxtaposition to the world of ancient tomes and hidden treasures concealed within the cement building.

"Alright, the store's closed today," Fatima said over their comms. "I'm trying to get in touch with the owner for permission to enter."

As they approached the cement building, something caught his attention. "May not be necessary." He shot Sam a look. "The door's open."

Drawing their weapons, Callen opened the metal gate in front of the door, and the two agents cautiously cleared the bookstore. The interior of the cement building was more polished and quite spacious, with high ceilings and rows upon rows of shelves holding an extensive collection of books.

As they approached the back of the bookstore, two faint voices could be heard talking, one sounding stressed. The muffled conversation seemed to be coming from a small study area at the end of one of the book-filled aisles toward the back of the store. The tension in the air grew thicker, intensifying the adrenaline rush as Callen and Sam exchanged silent glances, ready to confront whatever lay ahead.

"Federal agents!" Callen and Sam announced, their service weapons at the ready as they approached the study area.

Both suspects started running in opposite directions, their hurried footsteps echoing through the building's interior. Callen pursued one of them through the labyrinth of bookshelves, the suspect's desperate attempt to escape causing him to push a trolley into Callen's path, trying to impede his progress. Undeterred, he skillfully maneuvered around the trolley, his determination driving him forward.

After a brief chase, the suspect managed to reach the back entrance of the building, setting off the door's alarm, and escape in a white van parked just outside. The van's engine roared to life as it sped away, leaving Callen frustrated by the escape.

Annoyed, Callen walked back to where he had last seen Sam. Callen noticed someone tied up to a chair with a hood over their head a few feet away from his partner, the dim lighting casting shadows on the hostage's form.

"Lost him," he stated, deciding to address the hostage a little later. "He took off in a van." He then addressed the junior agent back in OPS. "Fatima, looking for a white van, no plates, moving at high speeds."

"Checking," Fatima replied, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she initiated the search for the elusive van.

"Who do we got under here?" Sam questioned, quickly pulling the hood off, revealing a frightened and dishevelled young man they both recognized. "Ah."

"Huh," he said, not exactly surprised. "Jessie Fiore."

"Nautical Robotics Incorporated," Sam said.

"Where's Admiral Gordon, Jessie?" he asked, his voice firm.

The young man glanced between both agents before hanging his head, the weight of the situation evident in his demeanour.

"So, we have a missing Navy Admiral, a stolen treasure map, and a tech guy," Callen said, his thoughts processing the unfolding events.

"Sounds like a true crime podcast," Sam quipped. "The Making of a Pirate."

"Where is Admiral Gordon?" He asked again.

"I can't tell you," Jessie said, his voice tinged with fear.

"Can't because you don't know, or because you don't want to?" Callen prodded, trying to gauge Jessie's reluctance to cooperate.

"Because I like being alive," Jessie replied, revealing the underlying danger he felt.

"Has your life been threatened?" Sam pressed.

"I really screwed up," the young man said softly.

"Who are you afraid of?" he inquired, wanting to know who the other players in the abduction were. They needed Jessie to talk.

"And everything just got completely out of control really quickly," the young man continued to say softly, grappling with the consequences of his choices.

"Look, we're here to find Admiral Gordon and to make sure everyone's safe, okay?" Callen assured the scared young man. "That includes you."

"But you have to be upfront with us so we can do our jobs," Sam added, his concern for Jessie's safety evident.

"Was Admiral Gordon in that van?" he inquired.

"Yeah," Jessie replied softly.

"Where is it headed?" Sam asked, urgency creeping into his voice.

"They're taking him to the Channel Island," Jessie said, revealing a crucial piece of information that set their mission in motion.

"Which island?" Sam pressed. "There are five."

His mind raced as he recalled one of his Social Studies classes back at Drona, mentally listing the different Channel Islands: San Miguel Island, Santa Rosa Island, Santa Cruz Island, Anacapa Island, and Santa Barbara Island. Four of them had U.S. Military ties as well. Based on his basic knowledge of the Islands' Maritime history, Callen figured that Santa Catalina Island or Anacapa Island might be their best bet as to where the suspects were heading. However, any of the five islands were good contenders. We need to find something to help us narrow down the search.

He nodded, understanding the reasoning behind the map's enigmatic nature.

Meanwhile, Sam's voice came through their comms, breaking the momentary silence. "Fatima."

"Sam," Fatima replied. "Still no sign of the van. It's possible they switched rides."

"Okay, so they're headed to the Channel Islands, but we need to narrow it down, so check with the National Park Services," Sam ordered. "If Admiral Gordon has moored his boat or camped on one of the islands, they'll have records."

"Copy that," Fatima said. "I'll let you know what I find."

"Thank you," Sam said.

As his partner put his phone away, Callen turned his attention back to the young man. "Okay, the runner? Does he have the map?"

"Yes," Jessie replied softly.

"What's his name?" Callen asked, seeking more information.

"Jim," Jessie informed them.

"Jim what?" he pressed.

"Jim Bones," Jessie replied.

Sam couldn't help but scoff at the peculiar name. "This guy's got jokes."

"I'm serious," Jessie insisted. "Er, that's how I knew him."

"Alright, so let's start from the beginning," Sam said, trying to piece together the events that led to this situation. "You helped Admiral Gordon find an ancient shipwreck using your ocean glider."

"He said once you found it, he could locate a buried treasure worth millions," he said, crossing his arms. "And that-that sounds reasonable to you?"

"I mean, he's located shipwrecks before," Jessie said. "He's worked with professional treasure hunters all over the world. According to him, the odds of finding it are way better than winning the lottery."

"Well, that's not exactly setting a high bar," he retorted.

"Alright, so you helped him," Sam said, trying to get to the core of the matter. "How'd we end up here?"

He uncrossed his arms, listening to his partner's questioning.

"When we found the shipwreck, he refused to show me the map," Jessie explained, a myriad of emotions lightly lacing the young man's voice. "He said he'd dig it up on his own and give me my share."

"But you didn't trust him," he surmised.

"I was angry," Jessie readily admitted, no anger in his voice now. "I told him we were in this together, but he shut me out."

"That's where this Jim Bones fella comes in?" he asked, curious about how everybody was involved in this mess.

"I joined this treasure hunt forum online," Jessie explained. "I met these two guys, Jim Bones and Long John. I told them about the map and the shipwreck."

Sam eyed him, amused yet exasperated by the situation. "You can't make this stuff up," his partner said, clearly finding recent events ridiculous.

"You can't," he agreed, acknowledging the peculiarity of the circumstances.

"They agreed to help me. Alright?" Jessie defended himself. "They were just supposed to break into his house to find the map. I didn't know they were going to kidnap him. Gordon's amazing. He wouldn't give up the map, not even after they roughed him up. But he finally gave in when..."

"When what?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"They put a gun to my head and threatened to kill me," Jessie said, his voice slightly shaky at first. "So Gordon told them about this place. He saved my life. Even after I betrayed him."

As Sam, Jessie, and Callen continued their investigation, they examined the open drawer, finding it empty except for a key still in the lock. Sam questioned how they obtained the key, and Jessie explained that it was given to them. However, the locked drawer seemed suspicious, and Callen wondered if there was something more hidden inside.

After some effort, Sam managed to pull out a large envelope from the stuck drawer. He then emptied its contents onto the table, revealing various items. As Sam sorted through them, he identified a cipher decoder wheel and encrypted manuscripts, most of which were in Latin.

Callen, who had studied Latin for quite some time in school, quickly gave the various documents a quick once over. Sam then held up a small piece of paper, clearly a part of Admiral Gordon's journal, and Callen took a photo of it with his cell phone to send to OPS to see if it would be of any use.

He turned on his communication device and contacted OPS. "Hey, Fatima?"

"Yeah?" she replied over their comms.

"I'm sending you what looks to be the missing piece from Admiral Gordon's ocean sketch," he explained as he pressed send.

"Copy that, Callen!" Fatima said. "Kensi and Roundtree also sent a missing part, so, hopefully, now we have the whole sketch."

He and Sam continued brainstorming and going over the cipher decoder whee and encrypted manuscripts, coming up short. They couldn't find anything to help narrow down what island they needed to head to.

Before long, though, Fatima was speaking excitedly over their comms. "Guys? Guys, we cracked the sketch. Gordon's headed to San Miguel Island."

Callen eyed Sam. That makes sense. Unfortunately, we're well behind those two guys. "We're gonna need a chopper," he stated.

"I'll dispatch one right away," Admiral Kilbride said.

"San Miguel's a naval island," Sam said.

"Indeed it is," Admiral Kilbride said. "Please be advised, agents, it was once a missile test site and is thought to be littered with unexploded ordnance."

With that knowledge in mind, Callen and Sam escorted Jessie to the Boatshed, leaving the young man with Agent Castor. He and Sam then caught the requested helicopter to San Miguel Island, hoping they weren't too late.

As they reached San Miguel Island, the helicopter touched down where it could best be concealed. He and Sam quickly started making their way through the trees, their eyes scanning the area for any signs of Admiral Gordon or the suspects. The island's rugged landscape and scattered foliage made it challenging to spot any activity from above.

As they made their way through the dense terrain, Sam's keen eyes caught a glimpse of fresh footprints in the soft sand. Callen followed his partner's gaze, and together they traced the tracks, leading them to a beach area where three voices could be heard prattling on about the treasure.

"Shut up and dig," one of the men demanded, the harshness in his voice signaling that he was in control. Callen deduced that this must be Jim Bones, the main instigator of the abduction.

Impressively, Admiral Gordon seemed unfazed. With a calm and confident demeanour, he recounted part of the island's history. "Juan Cabrillo, conquistador and Portuguese explorer. He died upon these very dunes. But as he lay dying, he cursed this island so that all who came here afterwards with ill intent would fall victim to violent deaths."

The other captor, Long John, cut through the ominous atmosphere with his blunt demand. "We just want the money," he stated, revealing their true motivation.

But Jim Bones remained undeterred, his wicked grin hinting at a darker agenda. "And once we get it," he taunted, "you're gonna die here too."

"Ha!" Admiral Gordon's response was filled with defiance, challenging the two captors. "A couple of punks like you two are not gonna ruin my destiny," he declared firmly.

"You hear this guy?" Jim Bones said. "You're crazy, old man."

He and Sam were able to successfully deal with the two men holding Admiral Gordon, one of whom got blown up, and they rescued him. They didn't bring him back to the mainland with them, though, because Admiral Gordon decided to continue looking for the treasure. And the man had his own boat to get back to the city.

The Admiral didn't have much, so they let him keep up his search. They only found out later that night that was in fact treasure and that Admiral Gordon had found it. The messenger was Admiral Kilbride who tracked them down at the Boatshed where he and Sam were chatting over a cold beer. The man handed Sam a small, red pouch. "Admiral Gordon dropped this by for the two of you." Admiral Kilbride started to turn so that he could leave. "Evening, gentlemen."

"Evening," he replied.

"Good evening," Sam said before opening the pouch and looking inside.

"What is it?" he asked, intrigued by the subtle shift in Sam's expression.

"Give me your hand," Sam requested, a serious tone in his voice.

"Why?" he inquired with a light chuckle, unsure of what his partner had in mind.

"Give me your hand," Sam insisted, urging him to comply.

Curious and slightly amused, Callen held out his hand as requested. His partner tipped the pouch, and to his astonishment, several gold coins and tiny jewels cascaded into the palm of Callen's hand.

"You gotta be kidding me," he exclaimed, disbelief evident in his voice as he examined the items he was now holding.

Meanwhile, Sam unfolded the note that accompanied the contents. It read, 'Ahoy, mateys. Adventure is everywhere.' The man shook his head in disbelief, trying to process the unexpected turn of events. "Okay. Okay."

Callen glanced down at the items in his hand, still finding it hard to believe. "That can't be real," he remarked, wondering if it was some sort of elaborate prank. Callen, for one, knew there was no way that Anna was going to believe it when he told her.

As the evening wore on, they found themselves chatting and laughing about the day's events. They clinked their beer bottles together in a silent toast to adventure and the unexpected turns life could take. One thing was for sure, their job definitely kept you on your toes. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Chapter 30: Duck and Cover

The silence of the night was broken by a sudden jolt, as Callen's eyes flew open. He gasped for air, his heart pounding frantically in his chest, and cold sweat dampening his forehead. As he tried to regain his bearings, he found himself back in his own bed, but the memories were relentless, unyielding.

In Callen’s mind, his old Interrogations classroom materialized once more, a place that held both the teachings and the torment. His fifteen-year-old self stood before his head teacher, his anger bubbling under the surface of his stoic exterior. Callen was becoming so tired of being controlled and treated like crap.

"Seventeen," Mr. Pembrook said, his voice devoid of any real empathy. "Remember what I've always told you; pain is just a state of mind. Control your emotions. Your abilities mean nothing if you can't endure."

Without warning, Mr. Pembrook brought out a small flame, the flickering fire dancing in front of Callen. He narrowed his eyes, pushing away the fear that clawed at him with years of practice. Callen was determined to prove himself, to show that he could take whatever they threw his way.

Mr. Pembrook brought the flame closer, the heat searing his skin. But Callen refused to flinch, refusing to give the harsh instructor the satisfaction of seeing him act weak.

"Is that all you've got?" Callen retorted, a hard edge to his tone. "I can play this game of yours all day, sir."

Mr. Pembrook's eyes narrowed, the man’s expression seemingly a mixture of pleasure that Callen was doing well with his training and annoyance that Callen had been more and more mouthy as of late. Which Callen felt was completely justified.

The burning sensation intensified, but he gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching in anger. He could feel the pain, but he wouldn't let it control him. Instead, he turned inward and repeated one of Mr. Pembrook's mantras while trying to breathe through the less-than-pleasant training exercise: Don't cry, crying causes pain.

As the flame and burning sensation moved up his arm, the classroom seemed to blur, the lines between past and present, reality and memory, blurring together.

In the present moment, Callen's hands were trembling, but not from fear - from rage. He hated these memories, hated that they still had power over him. He wanted to put this all behind him. But deep down, Callen knew that it would always be a part of him. Some wounds, even if they healed, inevitably leave scars. I survived.

As he sat in the darkness, Callen's anger began to give way to steely resolve. He'd endured those painful training sessions, and he had survived. And now… it had taken him years to trust any relationship, his past at Drona haunting every connection that he tried to make. Job hopping from the C.I.A, DEA, FBI, to NCIS, had been a way to distract himself from the painful truth he was avoiding - the reality of what Pembrook had done to him and the lasting impact it had on his ability to trust and connect with both himself and others. Yet he had managed to form a little makeshift family of his own with his OSP team and the amazing woman who was fast asleep beside him.

With a determined exhale, Callen forced himself to carefully get out of bed so as to not wake Anna. He didn't think he was going to actually get any more sleep that night anyway and really didn't want to wake his fiancée up. She deserved to get some sleep, regardless of the personal issues he had going on. He was used to getting little sleep, anyways.

Callen got up, made some tea that Hetty had given him a while back that he still had, pulled the toaster apart, put it back together, and started practicing his Romani - specifically focusing on the Kalderash dialect. He wanted to relearn the language his mother had tried to pass on to him.

At a quarter past six, Anna woke up, and the pair went out for a run together. Anna sensed the tension in the air, but she respected Callen's desire to leave it be for a bit and focus on the moment. As they jogged through the quiet morning streets, he felt a sense of peace settling over him. Being with Anna was always a source of comfort and support and this morning was no different.

They stopped for coffee and bagels on their way back home, enjoying each other's company and the simplicity of their morning routine. Callen's mind was already starting to shift from the haunting memories of the night to the tasks ahead for the day.

By the time they returned home, it was half past seven. Callen knew he had to head to work soon, but he wanted to spend a few more minutes with Anna before they went their separate ways for the day. They settled down on the couch, Anna's head resting against Callen's shoulder as they chatted about their plans for that evening and shared some laughs.

Upon returning home, the time neared eight o'clock. He knew he had to head to work soon, but he wanted to savour a few more moments with Anna before parting ways for the day. They settled on their couch, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder as they discussed their evening plans.

"Are we still on for that dinner with Eric and Nell tonight?" Callen asked, smiling down at her affectionately.

"Yeah, I think it'll be fun," Anna replied earnestly. "It'll be nice to spend time with them. It's been a while."

"That it has," he said with a curt nod. He was admittedly glad for the distraction that he would have that evening, plus it had been a while. After sharing a tender moment, Callen got up from the couch, giving Anna a gentle kiss on the forehead.

"I'll see you later," he said, a warmth in his eyes.

Anna returned the kiss with a sweet smile. "Be careful."

"Always," he assured her.

Arriving at OSP, Callen and Sam decided to loosen up with a friendly basketball match in the gym before their shift officially started. The sound of the ball hitting the court echoed through the room as they enjoyed a few moments of friendly competition. The physical activity helped to further clear his mind, giving Callen a boost of energy and a renewed sense of focus.

Shortly after 0900, their team was requested up in the Operations Centre for a debrief on the new case they were just assigned.

"Good morning, everyone!" Fatima greeted, pulling several images and documents up onto their large plasma screen. "Artem Sobolev. He's a high-profile arms dealer who operates out of Saint Petersburg, known for trafficking weapons to various criminal organizations. Our intel suggests he's planning a major deal here in downtown Los Angeles for some time this week."

"Sam, you and I will be on surveillance," he said, seamlessly taking over the briefing. "We'll monitor the target's movements and look for any opportunities to make a move. Fatima, Rountree, I need you two on tech support. Set up the surveillance equipment and keep a close eye on any communication channels linked to Sobolev."

Fatima nodded, accepting her assignment with determination. Rountree followed suit, eager to contribute to the mission's success.

"Kensi, Deeks, you'll be on overwatch," he continued, turning to the married couple. "Find a good vantage point to keep eyes on the location. We need you to be our eyes and ears from a safe distance."

Kensi and Deeks both nodded, fully aware of the importance of their role in any major operation like this.

"We've got you covered," Kensi assured Callen.

"Remember, Sobolev is not to be underestimated," he reminded the team, his voice firm and focused. "He's highly dangerous and well-connected. We need to approach this with caution and precision."

"Good thing we have a Russian on standby," Deeks quipped, shooting Callen a slightly lopsided smile.

Kensi shoot Deeks a pointed look. "Really, Sweetie?"

He rolled his eyes, mildly amused. "I'm glad to be of service." At the very least, Callen spoke fluent Russian and might catch something the others couldn't.

With their assignments clear, the team dispersed, each member preparing for their respective tasks. They knew the stakes were high, and the success of the mission relied on their seamless coordination.

The team prepared for the operation with utmost diligence. He and Sam geared up with their surveillance equipment, blending into the city's bustle as they discreetly kept tabs on the target's known locations. They moved like shadows, their instincts and training honed over the years guiding their every step.

Meanwhile, Fatima and Rountree set up the surveillance equipment in a nearby van, fine-tuning the feeds to ensure nothing escaped their watchful eyes. The young tech operator showed impressive skills, earning nods of approval from his more experienced colleague.

Kensi and Deeks found their ideal overwatch spot, a rooftop with a clear view of the target's suspected location. They settled into their positions, binoculars and communication devices ready. The couple's chemistry and trust in each other proved invaluable, as they communicated their observations to the team.

Throughout the stakeout, the tension was palpable. The team members remained vigilant, focused on their tasks, and relied on their well-practiced coordination. Time passed slowly, each minute feeling like an hour, as they awaited any sign of Sobolev's movements.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a break in the silence came as Rountree picked up some suspicious chatter on one of the monitored communication channels.

"Guys, we've got something!" Rountree said over the team's comms, his tone urgent. "Sobolev's location might have changed. He's not where we expected."

Callen and Sam exchanged quick glances, their instincts kicking in. "Roger that," Sam replied. "We'll head to the new location. Keep us updated."

As he and Sam made their way to the potential new site, they relied on their years of experience to stay composed. The situation remained quite fluid, and they needed to be ready to adapt quickly.

Upon arrival, he and Sam cautiously surveyed the area, ready to react at the first sign of danger. His partner them spotted a familiar face in the crowd, and his eyes instantly narrowed in recognition.

His partner got his attention. "G, there he is."

He gave a small nod. "Yeah, I see him."

During the midday break, he and Sam swapped out temporarily with Kensi and Deeks, who took over the surveillance until the two senior agents returned with some burgers and fries. Plus, he may have opted to stop into the convenience store by the burger joint to grab some of his favourite lollipops. "A little treat for the stakeout," he'd told his completely unsurprised partner.

Maybe an hour after lunch, Callen started getting into the lollipops. Sam then started folding the candy wrappers into animal origami, much to the amusement of the rest of the team. Soon, a miniature zoo of candy wrapper animals adorned the dashboard, bringing a touch of whimsy to their long stakeout.

Callen's eyes widened as they landed on one of Sam's origami animals. He couldn't help but chuckle at the whimsical creature, a playful grin forming on his face. "Hey, Sam, looks like you've created a new species," he said as he pointed at the origami creation in question. "An animal with six legs? Impressive!"

Sam chuckled and shook his head, playfully defending his craftsmanship. "Well, you know me, always pushing the boundaries of origami art," his partner quipped with a smile. "Who says animals can't have extra legs?"

"You've got a point," he replied, laughing. "Maybe it's a secret ninja origami technique, an advanced level of folding. It can join that Swan from Chernobyl you made."

"Keep it up," Sam quipped without missing a beat. "You're going to have to duck."

He grinned playfully. "I'll tell Nate you said that."

Sam eyed him, sensing the opportunity for a serious conversation amidst the light banter. "So, real talk. Does that mean you're actually going to have another session with him about everything that's been going on?"

"I don't want to," he admitted, a hint of vulnerability in his voice he rarely showed, "but I probably should sit down with him again."

Sam's gaze softened, understanding his partner's internal struggles. "It's the only way to quiet it, G. You said so yourself."

"Yeah, about our time in Fallujah," he pointed out. Their time together in Fallujah had definitely been made up of more bad days than good ones. It was rare either of them even referenced their time there augmenting the Marine expeditionary force.

His partner eyed him knowingly. "Advice still applies."

Callen grinned, trying to make thing a little less serious. "Well, you know what they say, Partner, 'duck and cover' - origami style!"

Sam chuckled at the poor joke, knowing exactly what Callen was doing and why. "Now that's thinking outside the lollipop wrapper."

They both shared a laugh, enjoying the lighthearted moment amid the seriousness of their mission. His partner continued to fold more origami animals, turning more of the candy wrappers into various creatures.

As the afternoon wore on, the team maintained their vigilance, keeping their eyes trained on the target's location. They communicated discreetly through their earwigs, sharing any relevant updates or observations.

Suddenly, Callen's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of an individual walking towards the meeting location. He immediately alerted Sam through their comms.

"Sam, I've got eyes on someone approaching the meeting. Doesn't look like part of Sobolev's entourage," Callen remarked, trying to keep his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Copy that, G." Sam started to shift his position slightly to get a better look. "I'll take a closer look." As he did so, a flicker of recognition crossed Sam's face. "Okay, that's Justin Ramsey. We crossed paths during a case I worked with Mark Ruiz back when I first joined OSP. He's part of the Vanguards."

Callen's expression shifted. If Ramsey was a member of the Vanguard Brotherhood, Ramsey's presence at Sobolev's meeting raised some serious concerns. "Be on high alert, Sam," he warned, his instincts sharpening for this critical situation. "If he's part of VB, that adds a whole new dimension to our op."

Sam nodded, fully aware of the gravity of the situation.

They continued to monitor Ramsey's movements discreetly for the next few minutes, gathering as much information as possible without drawing unwanted attention. If it was coming to a head, this was normally when things would go south.

"Fatima, Rountree, anything on your end?" Callen's voice was low, just barely audible amidst the ambient city noise.

"Nothing yet," Rountree replied over the comms.

"We'll keep you posted," Fatima assured them.

Sam's voice chimed in, "Keep your eyes peeled. This could go south real quick."

As the team observed from their respective positions, they all watched Artem Sobolev come out, surrounded by his heavily armed entourage, to check out Ramsey before he was invited inside to presumably make the deal.

Kensi and Deeks maintained their vigilance from the rooftop, communicating through hand signals and gestures, their eyes locked on the target's location. "I see Sobolev," Kensi whispered. "And there's Ramsey. This could get messy."

Callen and Sam maintained their surveillance, reporting back to Fatima and Rountree on the target's movements. Meanwhile, Kensi and Deeks remained vigilant from their overwatch position, ready to provide support as needed.

As the meeting progressed, a heated exchange erupted between Sobolev, Ramsey, and the potential buyers. It was clear that the deal was not going as smoothly as expected. The situation grew volatile, and the team braced themselves for any sudden developments.

Without warning, a commotion broke out, and chaos ensued. It appeared that the deal had turned sour, and gunfire erupted from different directions. The team sprang right into action, ready to neutralize any threats and secure Sobolev.

During the chaos, he made the split-second decision to breach the front of the building with Sam, to take the lead in confronting Sobolev directly. His heart raced as he and Sam approached the building's entrance, their footsteps masked by the intensity of their mission. The pair exchanged a silent nod, synchronizing their movements with military precision. With weapons drawn, they burst through the door, catching the armed guards off guard. In a swift and calculated display of force, they neutralized the threat, securing Sobolev with swift and efficient movements.

Meanwhile, Kensi and Deeks, ever the interesting duo, followed Callen's orders to go around the back and help box everyone in. Their coordinated efforts allowed them to cut off potential escape routes, helping ensure the operation's success.

Amid the firefight, Sam spotted Ramsey attempting to slip away from the scene. Determined not to let the dangerous extremist escape, Sam pursued Ramsey through the broken window and down the street, Callen doing a quick loop around the nearby alley to try and cut Ramsey off.

Finally, as Ramsey turned a corner, the man found himself cornered by both Sam and Callen, both of their weapons raised and locked on him.

"It's over, Ramsey," Sam said firmly, his voice unwavering. "You're not getting away this time. Put the gun down.

Ramsey's face contorted with rage and defiance, but the piece of work knew he was defeated. Trapped and outnumbered, he dropped his weapon, realizing that escape was no longer an option. "You haven't won anything," he spat, his voice filled with bitterness. "The Vanguards will rise again, and you can't stop us all."

His grip on his weapon tightened, and he met Ramsey's gaze unwaveringly. 'Maybe we can't stop all of you,' he said, 'but we'll never stop trying.'"

Sam approached Ramsey, handcuffing the man. As Kensi and Deeks arrived on scene, Ramsey was thrown into the back of the car. With Sobolev and his entourage secured, and Ramsey in custody, the immediate threat was gone.

Finishing up on the scene, the team returned to OSP to put away their gear and have a quick debrief on the case they'd just wrapped up.

"Hey, great job today, everyone," he said, smiling at his team.

"Thanks, man," Deeks replied. "It was a tough one, but we handled it well."

"I still can't believe Ramsey was involved with Sobolev," Fatima remarked, shaking her head as she spoke.

"The mental gymnastics involved there…." Rountree said.

"Yeah," Kensi agreed. "But luckily, we were able to take them down before anything worse happened."

He dipped his head slightly. "That's why we train for the unexpected."

His partner nodded in agreement. "Exactly."

"Amen, brother!" Deeks said.

Rountree started to chuckle. "Remember that time when Deeks got all tangled up in the surveillance equipment?"

The team laughed, and Deeks rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "We don't talk about that."

Sam couldn't resist adding some humour. "It's okay, Deeks. That's not even in the top ten of your most embarrassing moments."

Deeks rolled his eyes, smiling.

He couldn't resist teasing Sam, knowing that the Navy SEAL had his own fair share of stories. "Speaking of stories, how about the one from Tumakuru, Big Guy?"

His partner's expression immediately turned playful yet slightly exasperated. "We've been over this, G. Let's not go there."

He grinned mischievously. "Oh, come on. Deeks would love that story."

Sam smirked, playing along. "Alright, how about I share the one about those twins in Ratchaburi? Deeks would be all ears."

Deeks perked up, feigning excitement. "Oh, really? Now you've got my attention."

Kensi couldn't help but shake her head, amused. "I don't even want to know."

"Probably for the best," Fatima agreed.

After wrapping up the debrief at OSP, he picked up Anna and they headed out for their dinner with Eric and Nell. Nell had made reservations for them at an Italian restaurant in Downtown Los Angeles.

As he and Anna walked into the restaurant, they spotted Eric and Nell already seated at a booth towards the back. "Hey, there they are," he stated, smiling as he and Anna approached the table where the pair were waiting.

"Hey, there they are," he stated, smiling as he and Anna approached the table where Eric and Nell were already seated.

"Callen!" Nell exclaimed, giving him a warm hug. "It's so good to see you."

"Hey, Nell," Callen replied, returning the hug warmly. "It's been too long."

Eric greeted them both with a friendly nod. "Hey, Callen, Anna. Glad you could make it."

"I wouldn't miss it," he said, taking a seat.

Anna smiled and greeted Eric and Nell, "Hi, Eric, Nell. It's great to see you again."

Nell beamed at her. "Likewise, Anna. And congratulations on the engagement."

"It's about time," Eric added with a grin.

"Thanks," Anna replied, her smile growing wider.

As they settled in and started perusing the menu, the conversation flowed effortlessly. They reminisced about old times, caught up on each other's lives, and shared stories from their respective adventures.

"So, Callen, how's life at NCIS?" Nell asked, genuinely curious.

He took a moment to reflect before responding. "It's been an interesting year, let's just leave it at that." He didn't really want to get into the whole Drona and Hetty debacle in the middle of a restaurant.

"Fair enough," Nell agreed. "I heard you ran into a bit of an Akhos situation."

They settled into their seats, and the conversation flowed easily as they all exchanged stories and caught up on each other's lives. Nell leaned forward with enthusiasm. "You won't believe the contract I recently worked on," she said, a glint of excitement in her eyes. "We were assisting a federal agency in investigating a cyber attack on a critical infrastructure network."

"Sounds intense," he remarked. "How did it turn out?"

Nell's smile grew. "It was challenging, but we managed to track down the hackers and neutralize the threat," she replied. "It's always fulfilling when we can use our skills to protect vital systems."

Anna nodded, impressed. "That's really amazing work," she stated. "You and Eric are both so talented in your fields."

Eric beamed, appreciating the compliment. "Thanks, Anna," he said. "It's always nice to use our tech expertise to make a difference."

Callen turned to Eric, curious about his latest tech projects. "So, you mentioned taking on a new Military contract?"

Eric leaned back in his chair slightly, adopting a thoughtful expression. "It's an exciting one," Eric replied. "We've been tasked with developing a cutting-edge communication system for field operatives."

Anna's eyes lit up with curiosity at that. "Communication system?" she repeated. "That sounds like it could have a significant impact on operations."

Eric nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly," he replied. "We're aiming to enhance real-time data transmission and security protocols. It'll be a big step forward in supporting our people in the field." Eric grinned. "The security protocols are largely inspired by Katya if I'm going to be honest."

"That's impressive," he said, nodding appreciatively. "And anything that stops another mess like that is good in my books."

"You and me both," Anna agreed.

As the night came to a close, they said their goodbyes with promises to meet up again soon. Walking back to the car with Anna, Callen couldn't help but be glad for the little makeshift family he'd been able to build.

Chapter 31: Let It Burn

The next week and a half were crazy busy, and it wasn't just work stuff. He and Anna went out for dinner with Arkady, had another sit down with Nate, and then there was his nephew’s eleventh birthday party.

On top of that, with his sister and nephew going out of town for a couple of days, he was asked by Alex to pet-sit Jake's snake. Houdini did in fact pull a disappearing act, escaping from his enclosure in the Boatshed while he was out in the field working.

Callen did find the tween’s snake but he also found himself feeling a little less eager to pet-sit in the future. He also started looking more into Hetty's possible location as well as that of Howard Pembrook.

Callen woke up to the sounds of birds chirping floating in through their open bedroom window. He stretched contentedly, feeling the warmth of the sun gently caressing his face. As he rolled over, he found Anna was already awake, humming some tune while seemingly making breakfast in the kitchen.

"Good morning," she greeted happily, flashing him a bright smile.

Callen grinned, feeling instantly uplifted by her cheerful demeanour. "Morning, Honey. You're in a good mood," he observed.

Anna smiled, flipping the pancake in the pan. "Just excited for today, I guess."

They had breakfast together, chatting about whatever came to mind. As Anna left for her examination for her Private Investigator licence that morning, he decided to head to the Boatshed a little early rather than stick around the house.

He was sitting in the lounge area in Boatshed, reading the Los Angeles Times, when his partner walked in holding his drenched wetsuit. He glanced up from the newspaper he'd been reading and addressed Sam. "How's the water?"

His partner eyed him. "Oh. Cold."

Callen hummed.

"Thirsty," Sam said before marching over to the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

Just then, Rountree walked in clad in nothing but very small shorts Callen couldn't resist a playful jab, teasing the junior agent. "Wow, nice shorts there, Rountree. Those come in adult sizes?"

The junior agent shifted awkwardly and turned to Sam. "What did I tell you, Sam?"

"And what did I tell you about bringing something to wear under your wetsuit? Hmm?" Sam lightly scolded. "Which you didn't, so you get what's in the lost and found."

"Are these... are these Deeks' swim trunks?" Roundtree asked, sounding unsure.

"Relax, Rountree," Sam replied. "I know for a fact those are not Deeks's shorts." The Navy SEAL took a seat at the kitchen table. "They're Fatima's."

Callen laughed, amused by the situation although he also felt a little bad for the junior agent who was clearly a bit self-conscious.

"42.5," Sam said to the junior agent. "That's not bad for your first open-water mile."

"Yeah, wasn't good, either," Rountree said. "Stroke was off."

"Maybe it was your shorts," he quipped.

"Thought you were a good swimmer?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, I am, before I bike twelve miles and run a 5K," Rountree replied. The junior agent then eyed Callen. "And you, you're his partner, why aren't you training for this?"

"I wish I could," he said, closing up the newspaper and getting to his feet. He picked up his coffee. "I envy you guys, but, unfortunately, I got this thing." Callen started to walk over to Sam. "What's it called again? Oh, that's right, um, common sense."

Rountree chuckled, clearly thinking he shouldn't have agreed to train with Sam for the triathlon the man wanted to do.

"And he's afraid of sharks," Sam added with a grin, deciding the flip the playful ribbing back onto Callen.

"Really?" Rountree replied. "There aren't any sharks out there."

"Did he tell you that?" he asked.

"Yeah," Rountree confirmed.

"Why don't you ask him what happened to McMurtry?" he suggested, deciding to mess with Roundtree a bit. Plus, he couldn't help but think of the Tad Larson case and when the Banuelos cartel had later thrown Callen into the ocean with chum.

"What happened to McMurtry?" Rountree asked, sounding a little concerned.

"Nothing happened to McMurtry," Sam insisted. "There is no McMurtry."

"Not anymore," he quipped, making Rountree look even more anxious.

The junior agent was looking wide-eyed at him. "Wh..."

"See you boys back at the office.," he said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder with a pointed look. "Shame on you, he's just a kid." Smirking, he glanced back at Rountree with a dry chuckle. "Later, shark bait!" he quipped before making his way to the exit.

"Yo, Sam, what happened to McMurtry?" Callen heard Rountree ask from behind him before the door closed behind him. Hopping into his car, he headed to OSP.

At a quarter past nine, they all gathered for a debrief on their latest case, involving a case with the signature of a rather famous arsonist, Randall Perez, also known as On Alert. It seemed the man had struck again in Glendale. He was the primary suspect in the fire at Global West Ventures Corp that morning, a Naval defence contractor.

Before they could get to work though, Admiral Kilbride requested that Callen meet him in his office and asked that Sam sit tight at the Boatshed to be briefed further. This did rub Callen rather the wrong way considering that this wasn't the first time the Admiral had done this type of thing. What is his problem with me now?

"Don't get me wrong, it is healthy to question authority... on occasion," the Admiral remarked, grabbing something from his desk drawer. "But when it gets to be a regular pattern of behaviour, quite frankly, it begins to piss me off." The Admiral then held out a good-sized file to Callen.

He took the offered file. "What is this?" he inquired.

"This is everything I could find on your buddy Pembrook," Admiral Kilbride said.

"Thank you," he said, surprised and not sure why his boss was doing this.

"It isn't a gift, Agent Callen," Admiral Kilbride stated, voice stern. "It is my attempt to keep you focused on the job and not some ghost from an unhappy childhood. Now, you won't have to be distracted by your own research, so knock yourself out."

"My personal time has never impacted my work here in the office," he replied. I don't think I've been that distracted at work. Have I?

"Now, if that were truly the case, you and I would not be having this conversation, would we?" the Admiral swiftly countered.

"I don't..." he said, unsure of what to say.

Admiral Kilbride's eyes narrowed slightly, and a subtle crease formed on his forehead as he addressed Callen. "Quit while you're ahead," he curtly advised. "Less talking, more reading. Consider today your library day, and, hopefully, you'll find something in there that will allow you to put this to bed once and for all. Dismissed."

Knowing not to push his luck any further, Callen quietly left the office with a curt nod and went to sit down at his desk and read the file.

As Callen's fingers hovered over the file, he hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. "Alright, here goes," he muttered under his breath before peeling back the cover, revealing the name ‘Howard James Pembrook’ etched in black ink. The memories of training under the man resurfaced, making Callen feel both anxious and determined to get more answers about the man.

The file offered a more comprehensive account of Pembrook's life, from his birth in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to his father's service as a Marine. Callen learned that Pembrook had attended Buckingham Browne & Nichols School from pre-k until the twelfth grade and then obtained a Ph.D. in Psychology with a focus on Cognitive Neuroscience at the University of California in Berkeley.

"No wonder he was good at manipulating us," Callen muttered under his breath.

The file went on to vaguely discuss Pembrook's involvement with the C.I.A., where he specialized in black ops and later headed the Drona Project until the program was shut down in December of 1986 and the Drona Subjects were then transitioned into various schools near their respective foster homes. I remember starting at Oakwood School in 1985. I moved into Dovecote with Hetty late that May. How does that fit into all of this? I mean, I know I told Nate that it’s hard sometimes to know what I imagined. Did I leave Drona nineteen months earlier than the others?

During that time, Howard Pembrook was also apparently approached about becoming an Interrogations instructor for the Institute of Noble Maidens.

For four years, Pembrook worked at the Institute until he was eventually recalled back to the United States to resume working black ops for the C.I.A. The file hinted at Pembrook having headed up a team solely of Drona Subjects in particular. What is Pembrook's current status, and is he still actively involved in black ops work for the C.I.A or other agencies?

There was also documentation in the file showing Pembrook's connection to Hetty in it, the pair having apparently run a C.I.A operation together in South America a couple of years before they became involved with the Drona Project.

"What were they up to?" he muttered, his curiosity piqued. He had already known about Hetty's involvement with Pembrook, but seeing it in black and white brought back a flood of emotions he thought he had dealt with.

Hours seemed to slip by unnoticed as Callen delved deeper into the file, his emotions oscillating between curiosity, frustration, and a simmering anger. Eventually, Callen noticed the time and went to grab himself a quick bite to eat.

As he sat back down at his desk a while later, having just finished his lunch of burgers and fries, Callen resumed reading the file on Pembrook. With his mind elsewhere, he didn't immediately notice Fatima walk up, her footsteps barely audible.

"Hey, Callen, mind if I join you?" the younger agent asked, her voice soft and gentle, pulling him back to the present.

He blinked, momentarily taken aback before offering a small smile. "Oh, hey, Fatima. Sure, go ahead," he replied, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

Fatima took a seat, and he attempted to shake off the distraction of the file. "What's up?" he asked, trying to refocus his attention on the present.

"Not much, just got back from lunch. How about you?" she inquired, her eyes showing genuine concern as if she could sense that something was on his mind.

"Yeah, just going through this file the Admiral gave me," he said, trying to decide how much he wanted to share. "It's about the Drona Project."

"Drona? That's the C.I.A. training program that you were in, right?" Fatima asked, her curiosity evident, yet clearly trying not to be intrusive.

Callen nodded. "Yep," he confirmed, glad that Fatima remembered and he didn't have to elaborate too much. "I'm trying to learn more about someone who was involved in that program with me; Howard Pembrook."

Fatima tilted her head slightly. "Who was he?"

"The main instructor," he said, deciding he wasn't going to dive into just what that had meant for him and the other kids in the training program.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Fatima asked, offering a supportive ear.

Callen glanced at Fatima, his guarded expression softening slightly. He appreciated her concern but was hesitant to open up fully. "Not right now," he replied in a measured tone, keeping his emotions in check. "It's... complicated."

The junior agent nodded. "I get it," she replied, offering a reassuring smile. "Whenever you're ready. No pressure, honestly."

A few minutes later, Fatima had to head back up to Ops, Callen throwing himself back into the file. He periodically found himself lost in memories and glancing at his team as they came in and out of OSP in between fieldwork and conducting various interviews.

He was a little surprised to see that the file had a copy of Pembrook's HL7 test, which the man had apparently passed with flying colours.

It was about five o'clock and Callen was still absorbed in the file when Admiral Kilbride walked up and placed a bottle of whiskey down on his desk in front of him. "I always enjoy a nice scotch with a good book."

"Yeah, this is a real page-turner," he said, it taking everything within him to keep his voice calm. He then gestured to the file. "Did you read this?"

"No, no," Admiral Kilbride quickly reassured him. "But I did call in some favours to get everything I could find. But this is your story, Agent Callen." His respect for his boss grew as he heard that. "It is not my place to... invade your privacy. Now, that said, if there's anything in there you want to talk about, you know where to find me."

Callen cleared his throat and held up a photo for the Admiral, not trusting his voice at the moment. He wanted to give himself a moment to compose himself a little better as he felt like he was drowning.

His boss took a look at the black and white photograph. It was an image of Hetty and Pembrook standing outside on some street, in front of a car. The Admiral then turned his attention back to Callen. "We've all done things we regret."

"Hetty doesn't seem to be the kind of person to regret much," Callen replied, his voice steady now that he had a moment.

"Don't kid yourself," the Admiral replied. "Now, she may put on a good front, but Hetty has enough regrets for all of us. She has done things that most wouldn't... to keep the rest of us safe. Unfortunately, that comes with some... very dark, ugly things that you carry with you to your grave."

"Well, I'm not sure how indoctrinating children does much to keep people safe," he replied, recalling the harsh experiences he went through. We certainly weren't safe.

"I don't know," Admiral Kilbride said thoughtfully. "Seems to me you keep people safe every day. So maybe some good did come of it. Even if their methods were... ethically and morally questionable."

"If not reprehensible," he remarked, voice softer now. It wasn't just indoctrination but full-on torture. There is no way that's okay. Ever.

"I don't always agree with her," Admiral Kilbride admitted. "And I usually don't like the way she operates. Hell, I'm not even sure I even like her most days. But I damn well respect her. Henrietta... and I'm sure that's not even her real name... Henrietta has dedicated her life to the greater good. She has made mistakes along the way just like the rest of us. But it was always done in the service of this country."

Callen took in the Admiral's words and then leaned over his desk slightly. "So... am I a mistake or a... dark, ugly thing she has to carry to the grave?" Despite his composed demeanour, his emotions ran deep, and he wanted some validation and clarity about where he stood in Hetty's life. Am I someone she regrets hurting or a monster she regrets creating?

Admiral Kilbride sighed. "Only you can decide that, Agent Callen," the man said. "But in my experience, the past is a place to learn from. Not to live in. Enjoy the scotch. Turn off the lights when you leave." With that, the Admiral turned and took his leave, leaving Callen to grapple with the tangled emotions swirling within him.

Feeling even more torn than he had when he first started getting his memories back, he sighed. Reaching for the bottle of scotch, he poured himself a generous measure. The liquid amber swirled within the glass, offering a tempting escape. He raised it to his lips, the burning sensation sweeping through his throat, momentarily drowning out the tumultuous thoughts stirring within him. He couldn't help but wonder how his life might have been different if he hadn't been a part of the Drona Project.

Getting up, Callen turned off the remaining lights and ensured that the front door was firmly locked behind him, intending to head home to Anna.

In the solitude of his car, he sat for a moment, staring out into the darkness, the Admiral's words hanging heavily on his shoulders. Drona was hell. And Hetty was a part of it, whether she regrets it or not. I was used.

Chapter 32: Sleeping Dogs

In the past two months, Callen's life had been a whirlwind, juggling his demanding work at NCIS with the ongoing search for Hetty, leaving him little time to catch his breath. As each day passed, his heart ached more deeply, torn between duty to Hetty and his desire for closure. He did put his search for Pembrook on hold, though. He just wanted to put it all behind him.

Amidst the hectic schedule, a last-minute situation had him and Anna taking care of Rosa for a night while Deeks and Kensi went on a date, as Kensi's mother had come down with the flu. It was the first significant time they had spent with Rosa since she had joined the Deeks-Blye family. He and Anna also managed to carve out some time to meet with a wedding planner although that didn't exactly pan out. The woman was way too perky, and they were both way underprepared.

Work proved to be more challenging than ever, with Arkady once again entangled in trouble. This time, it wasn't the man's fault, but rather his ex-girlfriend Miraslava Birisova's doing, which prompted Callen and the team to step in and resolve the situation.

The chaos escalated when the team became embroiled in a dangerous case involving a group of rogue C.I.A officers, led by the enigmatic Morgan Miller. A trip to D.C. for their former FLETC instructor's retirement party turned into a harrowing ordeal when the instructor was found dead. The situation took a dangerous turn when Sam was kidnapped by the rogue officers, and Callen went off the grid after returning to Los Angeles alone, narrowly escaping an attempt on his life by Officer Morgan.

Once the rogue C.I.A. officers were handled, he was sent TAD to NCISRA Twentynine Palms to assist with a drug smuggling investigation, providing a change of scenery but not without its share of challenges.

As if that wasn't enough, Kensi and Fatima were kidnapped by an Islamic Militia during an investigation, putting the entire team on high alert and adding even more stress as they tried to bring them home safely.

Finally, with some time to breathe, Callen decided to take a few days off at Nate's suggestion and head to Laguna with Anna for a short vacation. The change of pace and scene of Laguna provided a momentary escape from the recent business, allowing them to recharge and find comfort in each other's company.

Upon returning to work, the team faced a relatively straightforward theft case, which they swiftly closed by lunchtime, allowing Callen to get caught up on the paperwork he had regrettably let pile up. On a more positive note, he actually slept well that night.

Callen was sitting at his desk, his laptop open to his last pending After Action Report, when his partner walked in with a casual "Morning."

"Morning," he replied, glancing up from the laptop to greet his partner.

As Sam sat down at his desk, he noticed a photo of a very dark green three-piece suit that Callen had left for him. Curious, he picked it up and asked, "What's this?"

"That is what Anna… we would like you to wear to the wedding," he replied with a smile.

Sam looked surprised. "You're choosing what I wear?"

Callen eyed his partner a little bit nervously. "It's part of her whole colour palette she's going for. That we are going for."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "And everyone's wearing this?"

"Just you," he said, trying not to show how out of his element he felt.

"Only me?" Sam said, clearly catching on but trying to drag it out.

"Obviously," he replied.

Sam's mind seemed to be connecting some dots. "Is this your way of asking me to be your best man?"

Callen stood up and started walking over to Sam. "I didn't think that I actually had to ask. I mean, uh, was there ever any question?"

Sam's smile softened, but he couldn't resist teasing. "I mean, you've been spending a lot of time with Castor lately."

"No, I haven't," Callen insisted.

"That's not what he says," Sam retorted with a smirk.

He laughed lightly. "We had drinks once. He was feeling down because Miraslava had knocked him out. He needed a little cheering up."

"He said you went to dinner too," Sam countered.

"Bar food," he said, trying to downplay it. He might be friendly with the much younger agent but they were hardly friends.

"I don't know. I mean, this guy worships you, he's... I think he'll be heartbroken. He even dresses like you," Sam said with a knowing look.

He scoffed. "No, he does not."

At that moment, Agent Castor walked into the bullpen, wearing an outfit that bore a striking resemblance to Callen's typical attire. "Hey, Callen. Sam," the younger agent greeted them both warmly.

"Hey," he replied, not entirely sure what to make of the matching outfits.

Sam grinned at Castor. "Looking good, Castor."

"Thanks, man," the younger agent replied with a wide smile. Agent Castor then made his way toward the back of the building, where his team's bullpen was located.

He turned toward Sam and rolled his eyes playfully. "Fine. You want me to ask you, I'll ask you. Will you be my best man?"

Sam's eyes shone with affection. "Of course. Was there ever any question?"

He shot him a look, amused by his partner's teasing.

Sam, however, had one more cheeky condition to add. "But I'm gonna have to check with Anna, though. I got to talk to her about this colour palette."

Callen agreed with a grin, "Yeah, I agree. Otherwise, you're gonna end up looking like The Incredible Hulk."

Just then, the Admiral's Assistant, Shyla, appeared at the top of the stairs, catching their attention. "Hey, guys."

"Shyla, you got a case?" Callen asked, curious about the reason for her presence. He hadn't known she was back in Los Angeles.

"Actually, I was hoping you could tell me," Shyla replied, her voice urgent.

They made their way up to the Operations Centre, where the atmosphere was tense. Shyla quickly started to brief them on the situation.

"We just received an urgent message over JWICS. It contains two files," Shyla briefed them as she pulled up two images on the large plasma screen. "The first is a driver's license for John Jenkins, the CEO of a software startup. The second is an I.D. for FBI analyst Patrick Hertel."

Sam was a little puzzled. "JWICS is only used to share top-secret information. What's so urgent about these guys?"

"Well, for one thing, they were both found murdered in L.A. this morning," Shyla said without missing a beat. "A neighbour in Van Nuys heard a gunshot around 6:30 a.m. LAPD found Hertel's body in his backyard. Half an hour later, Jenkins was found shot at a business park."

"Any other connection between them?" he inquired.

Shyla shook her head. "None that I can see. And, technically, neither of their murders fall under our jurisdiction. I'm really not sure what to do."

Sam's eyes fell on the numbers displayed on the screen. "What are those numbers there?"

Shyla read the message. "8. 11. 12." She tilted her head slightly. "Could be a date. August 11th, 2022."

"JWICS packets have markers in them," he pointed out. "It should tell us who sent this."

Shyla nodded, adding, "I know, that's where it gets even stranger. The source is a SCIF on the border of Turkey and Syria, in the town of Al-Rai."

He and Sam shared a pointed look.

"You know it?" Shyla asked.

"That was her last known location," Sam stated, voice sombre.

As he stared at the GPS map up on the screen, his heart pounded in his chest. It had to be Hetty and her unexpected communication stirred up a myriad of emotions inside him - relief that she was alive, irritation with her cryptic approach, as well as lingering hurt from their last conversation. His jaw tightened slightly but he tried to keep his expression neutral. "Yeah, but it doesn't make any sense." Why now? What are you trying to tell us, Hetty?

"Who else would send a cryptic message like this?" Sam remarked.

Shyla's eyes visibly widened in realization. "Wait, are you talking about who I think you're talking about?"

Callen's usual calm facade cracked slightly as he nodded, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions sweeping across his face and his voice tightening with emotion. "Hetty."

After leaving the Operations Centre, he headed straight to Admiral Kilbride's office to brief him on the urgent situation with the cryptic message.

"She wouldn't have used JWICS if it wasn't important," he asserted.

Admiral Kilbride looked skeptical. "If it were important, she'd have sent us more than two names and a random set of numbers. Now, this reads less like an urgent message and more like a top-secret butt dial."

He couldn't help but agree. "It is cryptic. Even for Hetty."

The Admiral shared some information they had received. "The Marine detachment in the area said that the SCIF this packet was sent from was shut down months ago."

"Maybe she sent it from somewhere else, altered the logs," he suggested.

The Admiral eyed him incredulously. "Then why not just sign her name to it? JWICS is secure. Unless it's not."

He sighed. "Look, if Hetty thought the D.O.D's top-secret network was compromised, it would explain why she gave us so little to go on."

Admiral Kilbride apparently couldn't resist getting a snarky comment in. "More likely she just enjoys being a pain in the ass."

His gaze didn't waver. "I think it's worth looking into these two victims," he insisted. "See if there's anything there."

Even though the Admiral grumbled about Hetty's cryptic message, there was a hint of fondness in his voice. "Well, though I do not approve of Henrietta's incessant backseat driving, I suppose I do owe her thanks for help in the, uh, Simon Williams debacle," he mused. "Find out what you can."

He felt a sense of relief and turned to leave. "Thanks, Admiral."

"But Agent Callen, you stay in your lane," the Admiral warned him sternly. "Do not interfere with the official investigations."

With Admiral Kilbride's permission granted, he called in Fatima and Rountree to brief them on the situation. Kensi and Deeks were out for the day visiting Rosa's aunt who was recovering from a recent stroke.

Callen's mind was reeling though from the situation with Hetty. He still wasn't sure how to feel about his former foster mother. He was relieved that she seemed to be alive, safe, however, although if it was primarily out of concern for her safety or out of a desire for answers, he really didn't know at this point.

Chapter 33: Angeleno Orphans

After the meeting with Admiral Kilbride, Callen returned to his desk in the bustling bullpen. Agents and Analysts were gathered all around, engaged in conversations and working on various tasks. He managed to maintain his trademark neutral expression, but deep down, emotions churned inside him like a stormy sea.

The relentless glare of overhead fluorescent lights illuminated the bullpen, casting sharp shadows that seemed to amplify the urgency and tension in the air as he gave them a sit-rep. Fatima and Rountree then both looked at him expectantly, waiting for his orders. Sam, thankfully, seemed fine with letting Callen decide the pace.

He subtly tightened his grip on the edge of his chair. He tried to keep his composure, his voice remaining steady as he issued assignments. "You two go to Hertel's and Sam and I will take the business park. We need to find out if there's anything connecting them." I can't let the team see how much the situation with Hetty's affecting me. They depend on me to lead, to keep a clear head. I can't afford to let my emotions get in the way and interfere with the job.

As they walked through the tunnel to the exit, Callen couldn't help but feel the weight of the past creeping up on him, tightening his shoulders as he tried to deal with all the emotions Hetty's message had stirred up.

He tried to mask it, but Sam, being the perceptive partner he was, noticed the subtle tension. Sam came up to him, placing a reassuring hand on his back, and asked in a low voice, "You alright, G?"

Callen forced a smile, hoping to deflect his partner's concern. He didn't really want to get into it. "Yeah, I'm fine. Let's focus on the case."

His partner nodded, knowing after so many years that Callen often needed some space to process a situation in his own way.

At the Jenkins crime scene in Santa Monica, the business park is a hive of activity. LAPD officers had cordoned off the area with yellow tape and Callen's gaze settles on the surrounding buildings, their glass exteriors reflecting the piercing sunlight.

Callen and Sam wove through a maze of employees and witnesses bustling around the business park. They began interviewing witnesses, their questions blending with the murmur of conversations that filled the air. The low hum of LAPD radios added to the sense of urgency in the atmosphere.

As they wrapped up their initial interviews, Callen's phone buzzed, and he received a call from Fatima, who faced resistance from the FBI at the Hertel crime scene, clearly being stonewalled.

"LAPD doesn't have any eyewitnesses," he explained to Sam as he walked back up to his partner. "None of the businesses were open at the time of the murder."

"Cameras?" the other man inquired.

"All offline due to maintenance," he replied.

"Well, could be a coincidence," Sam said. "Yeah, speaking of, uh, coincidences. Spoke to Fatima," he said. "Turns out that, uh, Rountree's girlfriend's calling the shots at their scene." "Oh, isn't that a lucky break?" Sam replied. "Well, you would think, but apparently Rountree's not the smooth-talker we assumed him to be," Callen said. "What do you think here?"

"It's a robbery," Sam deduced. "No wallet, keys, or phone. No brass either. Either the killer used a revolver or they took it with them."

"Well, I may have found half of his phone," he said. "Actually, the dog found it. LAPD said he had it in his mouth when they got here. Reminds me..." Callen pulled out his cell phone and called Ops. "Shyla. You find any link between Jenkins and Hertel yet?"

"Nothing," Shyla said. "Not even a Kevin Bacon connection."

"What about 8/11/22?" he asked. "Maybe they crossed paths that day?"

"I'm still checking," Shyla said. "But here's what I do know: Jenkins' startup has one employee: Jenkins. And it hasn't created a product in five years."

"Fake it till you make it," Sam said. "That's the tech sector's motto, right?"

"Yeah, but this is going pretty heavy on the fake," Shyla said. "Except for the money coming in. That is definitely real."

"So you think it's a front?" he asked. "You think they're laundering it?"

"Starting to smell that way," Shyla said.

"Do we have any way to get in touch with his family?" Sam asked.

"Nope," Shyla said. "He's an orphan and his adoptive parents died years ago."

"Alright," he said. "Thanks, Shyla."

"Alright, so Jenkins tries to call 911. The killer takes his phone and breaks it?" Sam said, thinking aloud.

"Unless Jenkins destroyed it himself," he suggested. "Based on what Shyla just told us, he clearly has some things to hide."

"Well... the dog found this half," Sam said. "Maybe he'll find the other."

They didn't find anything of much use at the Jenkins scene but, thankfully, Fatima was able to convince Summer to let her and Roundtree into the Hertel scene. They also found out that both of the men were orphans in the Los Angeles foster care system, were both in their 40s and were killed in exactly the same way.

"Still haven't set a date, huh?" Sam asked as they continued searching bushes for the second half of the cell phone.

"Nope," he said. "Anna's giving me time to look for Hetty."

"Well, maybe this message is the thing that leads to her," Sam said.

"Eh, I don't think so," he admitted. "I think Kilbride's right. If she wanted us to know more, she would have told us more. If she wanted to be found, she would have told us where to find her. But she doesn't. You know, at a certain point, I can't make Anna wait any longer. At a certain point, I don't want to wait any longer. I want to marry her."

"I can't wait to make my best man speech," Sam said matter-of-factly before a cheeky grin played on his lips. "I have a lot to say."

Callen started to chuckle at the implications of that.

"A lot of wisdom to impart," Sam continued.

"I'm pretty sure I've heard it all at this point," he replied.

"Not to you," Sam said. "For Anna. Want to make sure she's really clear about what she's getting herself into."

"Maybe I do want to talk to Castor," he quipped.

"Okay," Sam said, feigning nonchalance.

Before he could respond, Jenkins' dog Rebel suddenly started barking loudly, drawing their attention to an LAPD officer trying to get their attention. The woman was holding the missing half of Jenkins' cell phone that Rebel had apparently found.

"Good boy," he remarked with a small smile. The pair then walked over to where LAPD Officer Kim was waiting for them.

At Admiral Kilbride's suggestion, Shyla started going through some files that Hetty had kept around the office. Both of the victims had worked for the government, specifically in intelligence, so Shyla and Admiral Kilbride then started comparing birthdates before calling Fatima and Roundtree to ask about a birthmark on Hertel.

"Shyla," he said, answering the phone call. "Yeah, we're coming back with Jenkins' cell phone. It's broken in half, but I think it's still salvageable."

Admiral Kilbride chimed in, his voice tense. "It's not a date, Agent Callen."

"Admiral?" he asked, a little confused.

"8, 11, 22. It's not a date," the Admiral said. "Those are people."

Callen froze on the spot, suspecting the significance of the numbers. He's not seriously about to say what I think he is?

Apparently, his partner hadn't put the pieces together just yet. Then again, Sam's not the one who was used as a guinea pig. And by his own foster mother, no less. "What do you mean, people?"

"Jenkins and Hertel are Subjects Eight and Twenty-Two from the Drona Project," the Admiral replied. "Your alma mater, Agent Callen."

The weight of the Admiral's words hit him like a bolt of lightning. The concern etched on Sam's face, standing nearby, was evident, as if sensing the turmoil within Callen. Memories from his past flooded back, overpowering his senses. The intensity of those harsh training sessions, Pembrook's stern gaze, and the pain of betrayal all resurfaced in vivid detail along with a healthy dose of anger.

The ticking of the stopwatch echoed in his ears, the incessant beats reverberating in his mind. The scent of Shulton Pierre Cardin cologne wafted through the air, mingling with the cool breeze of the evening, creating an eerie juxtaposition of his past and present. As Callen's surroundings blurred, he was transported back in time to one of many one-on-one training sessions he’d had with Mr. Pembrook.

He was sitting at the large wooden table, attempting to finish solving the substitution cypher he’d been given. The classroom was quiet, except for the teacher’s stopwatch, and the pressure to perform well was weighing heavily on his young shoulders.

Struggling to even identify the first symbol , Callen tried to move as quickly as he could. He was halfway done solving the cypher when a sharp pain shot through his fingers from Mr. Pembrook's wooden stick, causing him to instinctively clutch his injured hand, wincing and whimpering in discomfort.

The head teacher proceeded to get down to eye level beside him, eyes narrowing with a stern expression. "Focus, Seventeen!" Mr. Pembrook demanded firmly, the man’s voice devoid of any sympathy despite the ten-year-old boy’s discomfort.

He took a breath, grounding himself firmly back in the present, swiftly concealing his emotions behind his practiced mask. Stay focused on the case. Keep your emotions in check. Focus. Callen's anger at the whole Drona situation was bubbling just beneath the surface, but he kept his expression neutral.

He swallowed his feelings, like he had done countless times before, and focused on the task at hand. Turning to Sam, he gestured for his partner to follow him, walking in the direction of where they parked the Challenger earlier that morning. I just want to put this behind me. Why can't I ever catch a fricken break?

Chapter 34: Race Against Time

With his heart pounding in his chest, Callen hopped into the Challenger and dialled the number for Subject Eleven, Leah Novak. The realization that the numbers belonged to multiple Drona Subjects made it clear that Leah, who he'd met about a year ago now, was in danger. The dehumanizing aspect of the assigned numbers crossed his mind, but he pushed that thought aside, focusing on the issue at hand. He needed to reach Leah if there was any chance of saving her.

The line rang, each second feeling like an eternity, and Callen's nerves were wearing thinner than he'd like to admit. "Come on, come on. Pick up," he muttered anxiously. I hope we're not already too late.

Finally, the brunette Drona Subject picked up. "Hello?"

"Leah, it's Callen!" he said urgently over the car's speaker system.

"I thought I made it clear I didn't want to talk to you anymore," she said coldly.

As Leah coldly rebuffed him, his eyes flickered with frustration and regret. "Just listen to me," he replied, his voice urgent. She had seemingly repressed her memories from the Drona Project, just like he had until last May, but whoever was killing off subjects wasn't likely going to care. "Your life is in danger."

"Boy, you don't know when to stop lying, do you?" Leah retorted, her skepticism about anything he has to say clearly evident. He hadn't expected her to forgive his deception but she was angrier than he had expected her to still be.

He shot Sam a look of frustration. "We need to get through to her."

"This is Special Agent Sam Hanna," his partner swiftly interjected, trying to lend some credibility to Callen's warning. "He's not lying. Two people are already dead. Both of them were Drona Subjects."

"Leah, where are you?" he asked, his voice desperate.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Callen, but stay away from me," she demanded, her voice a mix of annoyance and stress. "If you call again, I will..."

Suddenly, there was a sea of noises in the background - a car door closing and then a loud gasp from from his fellow Drona Subject. "Leah?" Callen's concern heightened. It sounded like a full-on firefight on the other end of the line, with an echoey quality that suggested the woman might be in a parking garage or a similar enclosed space. It also sounded to Callen like there were three separate shooters. "Leah? Leah!" The gunfire continued, making his heart race even faster. "Leah."

"Shyla, can you trace her cell?" Sam urgently asked through their comms. "The line's still open."

"Just a moment," Shyla replied, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

"Leah, are you there?" he questioned urgently, hoping for a response.

"Shyla, did you get it?" Sam pressed.

"Yeah, a Mid City parking garage," Shyla quickly replied, typing away furiously on her tablet to presumably send them the address. "You're just a few minutes away."

With their hearts pounding and adrenaline surging, Callen and Sam raced towards the parking garage, their determination to save Leah fuelling them.

As they pulled into the parking garage on Cochran Avenue, the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead cast an eerie glow on the concrete walls. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of burnt rubber, the remnants of tires screeching in haste in the now eerily quiet area where there had been violence just a few minutes before.

Not wanting to waste crucial time, he and Sam immediately started to search for Leah as well as for any sign of the shooters.

After a moment, Callen's sharp eyes caught sight of a purple shopping bag and silver wallet on the ground. His heart sank as he noticed Leah lying on the floor a few feet away behind a dark grey car, a pool of blood forming beneath her. "Over here!" he informed his partner. "Think she's alive."

"Shyla, call an ambulance!" Sam's demanded through their comms, his face tense with concern as he glanced between Callen and Leah.

"It's already on its way," Shyla's calm voice promptly replied.

Kneeling directly beside Leah, he heard her gasp, a flicker of hope washing over him. "She's alive." Callen gently removed the gun that was still clutched in her hand and moved it away, following the protocols ingrained through years of training. He then spoke in a hushed murmur, his desperation thinly veiled as he said, 'It's okay. It's Okay. It's Callen.' His fingers instinctively pressed harder against the worst of the wounds, his mind racing as he fought to keep her conscious."

The distant wailing of sirens drew nearer, but Leah wasn't doing well at all. Callen was putting pressure on the worst wound but it wasn't helping much. Leah tried to speak, her voice barely audible. "Fourteen-" she just managed to get out.

At that moment, Callen's mind was unexpectedly drawn back to a vivid memory from his time at Drona, blurring the lines between past and present.

Callen was walking down to Mr. Pembrook's office for an appointment with his social worker regarding his current foster placement and passed the school's library where two subjects from another cohort were checking out the section closest to the door.

"Hey, Fourteen, can I borrow your Social Studies notes?" one of the boys asked a tall, brunet boy with chocolate brown eyes that Callen vaguely recognized as someone who could often be found engrossed in reading at the library during breaks.

Subject Fourteen rolled his eyes, a small smile on his lips. "Sure, Eight, but only if you promise to actually give them back to me this time."

Focusing on the present, his mind was a whirlwind of questions and emotions. "Wh...?" he said, the urgency that he felt mounting as he checked for any sign of a pulse, even a weak one. By now, Leah had completely passed out from her injuries. "Leah." What about Fourteen? Is he also in danger? Was he one of the shooters?

He and Sam watched as Leah was loaded into the ambulance and secured the crime scene. They then started the drive back to the Office of Special Projects. Callen also called the Admiral to let him know that Leah had mentioned Subject Fourteen.

"By my count, there were three shooters," his partner remarked after Callen got off of the phone. "Leah hit two of them. Which explains why they probably left their brass there this time. They needed to retreat."

"She had a go bag in her car," he pointed out, a little confused by Leah. "Water, MREs, burners, sat phone. She knew she was in danger."

"Maybe Jenkins did too," Sam said. "That's why he tossed his phone."

"Well, it would explain all the cash she had on her," Callen stated. "Must have stashed it in case of an emergency. That's what I'd do."

"Yeah, and you might want to rethink your methods," his partner remarked. "Stopping for the cash almost got her killed."

Callen couldn't shake the thought that had been replaying in his head since they found the connection to the Drona Project. "He'll be coming for me next."

"Who?" Sam inquired.

"Pembrook," he replied without missing a beat. "Has to be him. After I found him last year, he's wiping clear any trace of Drona, covering his tracks."

"That doesn't explain why Leah knew she was in trouble," Sam replied. "You said she didn't remember Pembrook."

"So she says," he replied. I think Eleven actually remembered everything. "She clearly knows a lot more than she's letting on. I need to find Pembrook."

Halfway back to OSP, he received a phone call from Fatima who along with Roundtree had managed to get into Jenkins' cell phone. "Hey, Fatima. What's up?"

"We got into Jenkins' phone," the junior agent replied. "There isn't a lot on it but there is a text from an unlisted number: Dhrishtadyumna."

"The Hindu warrior from the Mahabharata," Callen replied without missing a beat, not sure when exactly he'd learned that. "He beheaded Drona or Dronacharya."

Rountree scoffed. "Yeah. Definitely code word for, 'you're in trouble.'"

"Anyway, there's a few other numbers on the phone as well," Fatima continued. "One is for Leah, another for Hertel, another one for someone named Anthony Beltran."

"Subject Fourteen?" he easily surmised. Didn't take her and Rountree long to find out who Subject Fourteen was at all. Pretty impressive.

"Yep," Fatima confirmed. "The birthdate's a match. Beltran's a history professor and a former Army Ranger. I just sent his address to your and Sam's phones."

"Thanks, Fatima." With that, Callen ended the call. He checked his text messages and the plugged the address into Waze, starting the drive to Sawtelle.

Pulling up outside of the white ranch-style house, he and Sam spotted a brunet man in his forties, whom Callen instantly recognized, wearing a suit and putting what he could only assume was a well-prepared go-bag into the trunk of a black car. His demeanour still carried that familiar air of calculated caution. Man, Fourteen hasn't changed much. He's clearly about to run, though.

Hopping out of the car, Sam was the first to speak. "Anthony Beltran?"

Beltran's eyes widened and his stance tensed, a palpable wave of urgency running through his form. The man then bolted, feet pounding against the pavement as he darted down the sunlit street.

Callen quickly pulled out his NCIS shield, hoping to reassure the man. Unfortunately, Beltran didn't slow down any. "Hey, stop!" he called out, his voice carrying a blend of stern command and genuine concern.

"Go, go," Sam said, hopping back into the Hellcat. "I'll cut him off."

"We're federal agents!" he said, starting to run after the other man. "Anthony, stop! We're here to help!"

Taking cover behind a dark red truck, the man started firing at Callen with a pistol. He quickly took cover behind a dark blue SUV, drawing his own service weapon. He tried to get through to Beltran again. "Anthony, we're not here to hurt you." He then played the only card he could think of. "Leah sent us."

The effect was immediate. As the words hung in the air, Beltran's eyes flickered, a mixture of astonishment, concern, and something else – an emotion Callen couldn't quite decipher in the moment. "She's alive?"

"She's safe," he assured the man. Callen felt relieved when he finally saw his partner's car approaching. "Put the gun down." He saw Sam getting out of the car and drawing his weapon. "Put your weapon down."

Beltran's gaze shifted, acknowledging Sam's arrival. In a decisive motion, Beltran then lowered his weapon to the ground, the metallic clatter signalling the man's surrender. Standing back up, Beltran turned his attention back to Callen, his eyes narrowing in a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. "Who are you?" he demanded.

He took his badge back out and started walking towards Beltran as he replied. "NCIS Special Agent Grisha Callen. I'm Subject Seventeen." He put his badge back into his pocket, not taking his eyes off of the man. "You're safe."

With a nod, Beltran took a step forward, the three of them talking briefly before they all hopped into the Hellcat and headed to the Boatshed. As they drove, Callen couldn't help but hope that Beltran would actually be able to provide some answers.

Chapter 35: Scars

Sam's footsteps grew louder as he walked out of the main interrogation room at the Boatshed, rejoining Callen who just got off a call with Shyla back at Ops. "Burners, cash, MREs. It's a go bag. Just like Leah's. Except it doesn't have a cell phone," Sam informer him, gesturing towards the interrogation room. "He said he got the same message as Jenkins."

"Dhrishtadyumna," he replied easily.

His partner nodded in recognition. "Yeah, that one."

"Why were all the Drona subjects in contact with each other?" Callen wondered aloud. "Who warned them?"

"Could be the same person that tipped us off," Sam suggested.

Turning away from Sam, his features twisted with a blend of irritation and fatigue. He was tired of Hetty's manipulative tactics, so tired of being a pawn in the woman's little games. "Never makes anything easy, does she?"

"That's how she creates effective operatives," Sam reasoned.

"Okay, well, we're not in training anymore," he retorted sharply. He didn't care if Sam was being a little unfair at the moment. "People are dying."

"I'm just saying Hetty usually has a reason for the way she does things," his partner replied, understanding where he was coming from to a point.

Shyla's face flickered back onto the Boatshed's main plasma screen, putting a pause in that conversation momentarily. "Hey, good news. With help from Agent Morehurst, we were able to identify a vehicle from all three crime scenes and use Kaleidoscope to backtrack it to a building downtown."

"Alright, good work," Sam acknowledged, a sense of approval in his tone. "Tell Fatima and Roundtree I'll meet them there. And tell them to tac up."

"You got it," Shyla confirmed before her image vanished from the screen.

He turned to his partner, an almost imperceptible hint of uncertainty playing across his features. "You don't want me with you?"

"Of course," Sam reassured him. "But we need some answers." He motioned towards the interrogation room. "And that guy in there? He's got them."

As Sam left, Callen decided to head into the main interrogation room and speak with his fellow Drona subject. Beltran was standing, pacing restlessly in front of the table, his shoulders tense as if coiled for action.

"Have a seat," he offered.

"I'm good," Beltran replied defiantly.

They locked eyes for a moment before Beltran begrudgingly took a seat.

Crossing his arms, he eyed his fellow Drona subject. "Where were you between 6:00 and 7:00 A.M. this morning?"

Beltran scoffed. "Home."

"Anyone that can vouch for you?" he probed.

"I live alone," the man replied curtly.

"This text you said you received - who'd it come from?" he inquired.

"I don't know," Beltran replied. "I was busy all morning with a lesson plan so I didn't see it till a couple hours ago. But I knew what it meant right away. I teach ancient history, I've read the Mahabharata. I called Leah, she told me about John and Patrick. Put my phone down the garbage disposal, grabbed my bag, that's when you drove up on me. I thought you were his guys, working for him."

"Who?" he pressed.

"Who do you think?" Beltran retorted. "Howard Pembrook."

He settled into the chair across from Beltran. "You remember Pembrook?"

Beltran's chuckle held a bitter edge, the sound barely masking the turmoil that was simmering beneath the surface. "How could I forget? That guy left scars." With a deliberate motion, the man lifted his right sleeve, revealing a large burn scar etched into his skin. Beltran's gaze remained fixed on the scar, a mixture of anger and pain clouding his eyes as he spoke.

As Beltran spoke, he couldn't help but recall a memory from his own gruelling training sessions with their former head teacher.

In an instant, Callen was back in the Interrogations classroom from his youth. He sat in the chair, his small frame restrained, his hand vulnerable and exposed. The metallic tang of blood and the sharp, lingering notes of Shulton Pierre Cardin cologne filled the air, intertwining to create a disconcerting symphony of odours that played with the young boy's senses.

Unable to contain his pain and fear any longer, tears streamed down Callen's cheeks, mingling with the crimson stains that marred his fingers.

His heart pounded, and his body tensed, bracing for the next blow, both physically and emotionally, as Mr. Pembrook banged the mallet on the wooden table just in front of his fingers, taunting him.

"Don't cry," Mr. Pembrook's voice rang out, cold and detached. The mallet hovered menacingly over Callen's fragile fingers, each movement a calculated act of control. His words echoed with an indifference that the eight-year-old found both infuriating and heartbreaking. "Crying causes pain."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Callen mustered the strength to meet Mr. Pembrook's gaze. His voice trembled, the vulnerability seeping through his words. "How do I not cry?"

The mallet struck sharply between two of his fingers, eliciting a stifled gasp from Callen who was grappling to regain control over his emotions. Mr. Pembrook's callous response echoed in his ears. "Like I've been telling you. Don't feel. Remember?" Callen took a breath and glanced down at the mallet and his hand. "Feelings cause pain."

"Some you can see," Beltran continued back in the present, his voice barely above a whisper as he lowered his sleeve, "and some you can't."

The scar on Beltran's arm seemed to burn into Callen's memory, a stark reminder of the pain they had both endured. His throat tightened as he struggled to suppress the flood of emotions threatening to engulf him. We were just kids. How did we survive that hell? Finding his voice, he probed further. "Why is he targeting you?"

"Because we finally decided to do something about him," Beltran explained. "We were sharing information, stories, planning how we could build a legal case against him. Get justice for what he did to us. It was Leah's idea; she brought us all together."

"When was this?" he inquired, intrigued by Leah's involvement. So did she remember everything before this and lie or did she get her memories back like me?

"A year ago," Beltran explained. "After you talked to her about him." Before he could pose another question, Beltran added, "She told us about you, but I didn't know what you looked like. And we didn't include you because... well, you lied to her."

Callen's jaw tightened, a fleeting shadow of remorse crossing his features. He averted his gaze for a moment, silently grappling with the weight of his rather large misstep. I should've handled that whole situation a hell of a lot better.

"We kept what we were doing quiet," Beltran continued. "At least we thought we did. Somehow Pembrook found out and now he's trying to silence us." His fellow Drona subject's expression shifted, concern clouding his features. "Is Leah okay?"

"She was shot multiple times," he replied earnestly.

"Could I see her?" Beltran requested.

"It's too dangerous," he cautioned.

Beltran swiftly locked eyes with Callen, imploring. "Please. Please, Agent Callen. Leah and me... we became very close," the man admitted, a trace of warmth and affection colouring his words.

Callen was slightly taken aback by the revelation but remained cautious. Despite his reservations, he agreed, on the condition that he and Agent Castor would accompany Beltran to the hospital to ensure his safety.

A thread of unease wound itself around Callen's thoughts, a silent prayer whispered to an uncertain future. He seriously hoped that nothing would go wrong.

Chapter 36: Style VS. Substance

Upon arrival, the Los Angeles General Medical Centre's bustling environment contrasted with the seriousness of the situation. Waiting for an update, he showed Beltran a surveillance photo of himself taken back at the former Drona campus in Cyprus Park. "That was taken in Pembrook's garden in the back of the school. After I confirmed who he was, I went back to confront him, but he'd already cleared out."

"So this building your team found today... Pembrook's been working out of there?" the man asked, his voice holding a note of incredulity mixed with realization.

"It looks like it," he affirmed. "But he hasn't been working alone."

Beltran's gaze turned contemplative. "This all started with you," the man said. "After you found him, he knew his cover was blown. He figured his subjects would be coming for him. So he started to track them down to eliminate the threat."

He furrowed a brow. Something's just not quite adding up here. "But then why didn't he come for me? I found him. I was the primary threat."

"We were the ones who were trying to build a case against him," Beltran pointed out. "Maybe he saw that as a greater threat."

Just then, Agent Castor walked up to them and got the two subjects' attention. "Hey. Doctor says you can go in and see her now."

With a soft creak, the hospital room door swung open, revealing the dimly lit interior. The soft beep of machines filled the air, intermingling with the hushed murmurs of medical staff. And there, lying on the bed, was Leah, her form pale against the sterile white sheets. He and Beltran walked in, a sense of shared concern bridging the gap between them, emotions weighing heavy on them.

Callen's heart ached as he looked at Leah's pale form on the hospital bed. Guilt and worry swirled within him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should have done more to protect Leah. Shouldn't have lied to her about who he was. If I'd been honest with her when we met, she might have let me help.

"Oh..." Beltran's breath caught at the sight of Leah's serious condition. The ventilator's soft hum provided a haunting backdrop to the gravity of the moment.

"I know it looks bad," he remarked, "but the doctors are optimistic."

Beltran reached out and gently clasped Leah's hand, a silent gesture of support and care. Turning to Callen, determination flashed in his fellow Drona subject's chocolate brown eyes. "Pembrook needs to pay."

He inhaled and nodded of agreement. Yes, he does.

Callen's phone vibrated on the table, shattering the tense silence that had enveloped the hospital room. Shyla patching him into an urgent call from back at Ops let Callen know that the team had run into some difficulties down at the building they'd gone to check out, casting a shadow over the already charged atmosphere.

His brow furrowed in concern, Callen's voice steady despite the underlying tension that he was feeling after what he heard over their comms. "Go ahead, Shyla."

"I lost comms with the team," Shyla informed him, concern lacing the woman's voice. "Something's jamming the signal."

His jaw tightened. "How far away is the FBI?" he asked, his voice urgent.

"I don't know," Shyla's frustration was evident. "I can't reach them either."

Callen's mind raced, quickly calculating the potential risks and outcomes. "Alright, I'm on my way," he said decisively.

"Trouble?" Beltran's voice cut through the tension.

"Yeah." Callen's response was clipped, his focus entirely on the current crisis at hand. "Castor will take you back to the Boatshed."

Beltran's gaze remained locked on Leah's still form, his concern etched on his face. "I'd like to stay with Leah," the man requested, his voice determined.

Callen squared his shoulders, his resolve unyielding. "This is still an active threat," he pointed out, his tone brooking no argument.

"I can help protect her," Beltran countered, his gaze unwavering.

A sigh escaped Callen's lips, his concern for Leah warring with the need to ensure the other man's safety. "It's not safe for you."

"I am not worried about myself," Beltran's curt response was laced with a mixture of determination and something else Callen couldn't quite get a read on.

Callen's eyes bore into his fellow Drona subject's, a wave of realization washing over the seasoned operative as he took in the other man's demeanour and the mysterious warning they'd received from Hetty. He found himself dissecting every word. "No... No, you're not."

Beltran's confusion was palpable. "What?"

His expression darkened slightly. "We received a message this morning," he stated, the weight of revelation hanging in the air. "It listed the three subjects that were targets. Eight, Eleven, and Twenty-Two."

"Who sent the message?" Beltran's inquiry was laced with a growing sense of unease.

"We think the same person that warned all of you," Callen's voice lowered, a sense of gravity colouring his words. "But if they warned you, why wasn't your number on our list? Unless you were never warned."

The realization hit both men simultaneously, a tense silence descending over the room. Callen's gaze remained locked on Beltran, his mind racing to make sense of the intricate web they both found themselves entangled in.

"Step away from her," Callen's command was sharp, authoritative, his attention briefly shifting to the door as he slowly made his way over to it.

"Callen, this is crazy," Beltran replied. The man’s protest held a note of desperation, his grip on the situation slipping through his fingers. "I told you, I got a text. Dhrishtadyumna.”

"The warrior who beheaded Drona," he replied. His response was measured, his gaze unwavering. "Except he was also a student of Drona. A subject."

Callen's focus briefly shifted to the hospital room door as he knocked on it, hoping to get Agent Castor's attention.

"When Leah said Fourteen, she wasn't telling me you were in trouble," Callen's words hung in the air, the weight of revelation settling over them. "She was telling me who tried to kill her."

Beltran's chuckle was bitter, laced with a mixture of irony and resignation as the man decided to drop the pretence. "Pembrook said you were good."

The hospital room's atmosphere shifted as the door opened behind him, Callen not taking his eyes off of Beltran. "Castor, take him into custody," he ordered, his voice unwavering despite the turmoil that churned beneath the surface.

A sudden click echoed through the room, a chilling realization settling over Callen. It wasn't Agent Castor who had just walked in rather a man he immediately recognized from his youth. Subject Six was standing behind him, aiming a gun at him. The man's appearance was like a jolt from the past.

With a curt nod of acknowledgment, Mr. Pembrook motioned for Subjects Seventeen and Six to approach him at the front of the group.

Callen and Subject Six stepped forward, their gazes fixed on their head teacher.

"Today, you will be working with new weapons," Mr. Pembrook announced, his voice firm and commanding. "Retrieve your assigned weapons from the storage area."

Subject Six shot a confident grin in Callen's direction before striding purposefully toward the storage area. Their aura carried a hint of arrogance, revealing a self-assured attitude that was no stranger to the challenges of their training.

He followed close behind, watching as Subject Six's eyes roamed over the assortment of weapons. The boy's grin widened as they reached for a sleek, black handgun - a choice that seemed to align perfectly with their confidence.

As they rejoined the group, Callen couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Subject Six's choice of weapon. "Going for something flashy?"

Subject Six's smirk was entirely unapologetic. "Gotta have the right tool for the job, right, Seventeen?"

He chuckled softly, somewhat appreciating the other boy's bravado. "Just remember, style doesn't always beat substance."

Apparently, some things never change. Unfortunately, it was now two against one as his backup was clearly out for the count and his team couldn't be reached.

"I'm good too," Beltran's lips curled into a self-assured smirk. "Agent Castor is fine. He's just taking a nap."

The seconds stretched into an eternity, the room frozen in a dangerous standoff. His mind raced, evaluating his options, and his instincts screamed for action.

The vibrations of Callen's phone seemed to buzz with urgency, the screen casting an eerie glow in the dimly lit room. Quick on his feet, Beltran reached for Callen's service weapon, the weight of the firearm familiar in his grasp. "I don't kill people who don't deserve it," he declared, his voice firm and conviction-laden.

The tension crackled in the air like electricity as his gaze remained locked on Beltran. "But you'll murder Leah when she's laying in a bed?" Callen's question was heavy with accusation, his eyes narrowing in disbelief at the contradiction before him.

Beltran's response was swift, his gaze unwavering as Subject Six grabbed Callen's cell phone from his jacket pocket and turned it off. "You're right. She's no longer a threat, but I had to make sure."

The echoes of the past mingled with the present, leaving Callen grappling with the complexity of their shared history. "Why are you doing this?" his voice carried a mix of frustration and desperation, a plea for understanding in the midst of chaos.

"I know it may not feel like it." Beltran's words were measured, a thread of sincerity weaving through them. "But you and I are on the same side. We both want the same thing: to kill Pembrook. To cut the head off of Drona. He is still a monster, Seventeen. I'm just trying to do what's right."

Thinking back to his younger self battling pain and manipulation brought a mixture of understanding and empathy for Beltran's twisted sense of justice. He understood the rage that Beltran felt towards their former head teacher. Callen's gaze flickered, his attention drawn to Subject Six who was still standing right behind him. His unease grew as he noticed the syringe in the man's hand - one of the few things that Callen genuinely disliked and had since he was a child.

Beltran's voice cut through the silence, making his intent clear. "It's just a sedative. I can't have you following us."

As his fellow Drona subject's words hung in the air, his mind was transported back to a memory from when he was twelve.

He felt the cold, unforgiving metal of the chair against his skin, a stark contrast to the California warmth that surrounded Callen in the present. And as the needle pierced his skin once more, his grip tightened on the arms of the chair and his knuckles started to turn white. Although he was incredibly uncomfortable, his resolve held firm. Callen locked eyes with Mr. Pembrook, his glare unwavering.

The classroom seemed to close in around them, the struggle between their willpower palpable. Callen clenched his teeth, the taste of iron and salt on his tongue as he bit back the urge to cry out.

Mr. Pembrook moved around to the other side of him with the needle still in hand. "Don't cry, Seventeen," the man said. "Remember, crying... causes pain."

He fought to control his breathing and distract himself from the extreme discomfort. Callen started chanting the Serenity Prayer that he had learned back when he was in the St. Joseph's Orphan Home in his head to distract himself. "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change," Callen thought, each word a lifeline against the current situation he had to endure.

The man stepped back, seemingly satisfied with his reaction. "Remember, Seventeen, pain is a choice. And you've just proven you can make the right choice."

As Mr. Pembrook crossed the classroom to take a swig of his coffee, Callen leaned his head back against the chair, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. I never want any damn needles near me again. I hate them.

In the heat of the moment, Callen's training kicked in. He delivered a forceful knee to Subject Six's chest, followed by a fierce headbutt that propelled the man toward the exit. With a grunt, Subject Six stumbled, and Beltran seized the opportunity to slip out of the hospital room door.

He and Subject Six grappled, their movements a blur of aggression and desperation. In the midst of the struggle, Callen felt a sharp sting in his thigh. Ignoring the pain, he retaliated by elbowing Subject Six in the head with brutal force, sending the other man crashing to the ground. Callen's determination surged as he sprinted out of the hospital room, his focus fixed on capturing Beltran.

"Out of the way," Callen demanded as a nurse stepped in front of the door. There was a clear urgency in his voice as he rushed past. "Beltran! Stop!"

As he raced down the corridor, Callen's hand instinctively reached for his gun. But the familiar weight of the weapon triggered a flashback - a memory of a mallet striking a metal table in the Interrogations classroom. Beltran's voice echoed in Callen's mind, a chilling reminder: "He is still a monster, Seventeen."

The drugs that had been administered earlier began to take hold, clouding his senses. Callen's vision wavered and trembled, making it difficult to focus. He leaned heavily on a nearby trolley for support, his grip on his gun faltering. Pembrook's words resurfaced in his mind like a haunting mantra: "Don't cry, crying causes pain."

The struggle against the drugs intensified, it taking all his determination to battle the overwhelming effects. His voice emerged strained and grimaced, a last attempt to assert control. "Stop…" The effort was evident on his face as he fought against the encroaching darkness, but it was a losing battle. Callen's body gave way, and he hit the hospital floor with a resounding thud. Through the haze, he heard Pembrook say his codename - Seventeen - making him feel like that little kid again.

He was vaguely aware of a nurse approaching him and her lips moving, but couldn't register what she was saying, her voice a distant echo before the world faded away and he succumbed to the dark enveloping him.

Callen woke up in a bed in one of the hospital rooms about half an hour later. Both he and Agent Castor were okay, thankfully. The doctors checked them both out, and it really was a sedative that they'd been given. Specifically, Propofol. The bad news was that Beltran and Subject Six had managed to get away. But the agency was working with the FBI to track them both down.

After his discharge from the hospital, Callen sought solace at the Boatshed, the setting sun casting long shadows and painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. He needed a moment alone before facing the world again, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions after recent events.

The encroaching darkness of the evening matched the heaviness in his heart as he gazed at the horizon. He hadn't been there particularly long when the soft sound of footsteps drew his attention. Sam emerged from the lengthening shadows and walked toward him, a comforting presence in the fading light.

Sam's gaze followed Callen's, a shared acknowledgment of the chaos that had become their norm. "You wanna talk about it?"

A sigh escaped his lips, a mixture of vulnerability and exhaustion as he questioned his own judgement. "I had him, Sam. I had him, and then... Worst part is, I think... I wanted him to get away." I deliberately gave Subject Six that opening to drug me back there. "Think part of me wanted him to kill Pembrook and... now, if he does, if he kills anyone, that's all on me."

His partner's reply was a steady presence amidst the turmoil. "Well, I guess we better find 'em first. Beltran and Pembrook."

Callen's shoulders slumped under the weight of it all and he shook his head, turning back toward the water. He then sighed wearily. "I just wanted to be done with this," he remarked, his voice carrying the weight of frustration and exhaustion. "I just wanted to put this behind me and move on."

"The universe had other plans," Sam replied.

Callen gave a short, derisive laugh. "Hetty had other plans."

Sam gave a small laugh at that, unable to actually argue the point.

"I still don't know how she knew those subjects were being targeted," Callen mused, curiosity shading his thoughts.

"Add it to the list," Sam's response held a touch of humour, a nod to the enigma that was the Duchess of Deception, Henrietta Lange.

A fleeting chuckle escaped Callen's lips. His partner's presence brought a measure of comfort, a reprieve from the emotional turmoil.

"How's Castor doing?" Sam asked, genuinely concerned.

"He's a little down again," he admitted, feeling much the same. He could use a drink himself after everything. "I told him I'd meet him for a drink."

His partner's observation carried a touch of amusement. "It's his second time getting disarmed in three months."

He shot his partner a pointed look. "Well, it wasn't exactly his fault."

"Sure," Sam quipped. "Just don't trust him with the wedding ring."

His lips turned upwards. "Okay, now that's just mean."

Sam's eyes sparkled with mischief, still grinning. "You know I'm right."

He was genuinely smiling now. "W... E-Easy, best man. You already got the job."

Sam’s grin grew wider. “Oh, okay. Okay.”

Laughter rippled between them, a poignant reminder of the unbreakable camaraderie that had carried them both through countless challenges over their seventeen years as partners. While Callen's features briefly shifted into a more contemplative expression, he let out a contented hum. The exhale from his partner mirrored the sentiment, an easy understanding falling between the long-time friends.

Chapter 37: Undercover Resurgence

The following month breezed past with a surprising lack of fanfare. Work finally settled into a steady rhythm, a welcome change after a tumultuous period. Amid this calm, he and Anna managed to make some pretty solid progress with wedding planning even if they were still struggling with the seating arrangements.

On the last Monday of April, they greeted the day with a familiar routine: a refreshing run alongside Anna and then a quick stop at a coffee shop.

The morning sun painted the sky with shades of pink and orange, casting a warm glow on the streets as he and Anna jogged side by side. The gentle breeze carried the scent of ocean salt, invigorating their senses.

Their jog was rewarded with a breakfast of bagels and coffee, a simple indulgence to kick-start their day's activities.

As they sat at the kitchen table, enjoying their bagels and coffee, Anna stretched her arms above her head briefly, letting out a contented sigh as she did it. "I love these morning runs. They really wake me up."

Callen chuckled, taking a bite of his bagel. "Yeah, there's something refreshing about pretending I'm not dying out there." Although he did run, and had completed an Ironman in fact which he regretted right after, he was much more of a basketball guy.

Anna laughed, her eyes sparkling with playful mischief. "Well, you do bring a certain level of charm to our runs. Like my very own personal comedian."

He shot his fiancée a playful look. "Hey, I'm just making sure you never have a boring jog. Nothing worse than that."

"Mission accomplished," Anna replied with a grin, her tone affectionate. "You definitely keep things interesting, even if it's just by complaining about running."

He smirked, raising his bagel in the air in a mock toast. "To adding a touch of drama to the morning."

The blonde clinked her bagel against his with an amused hum. "Cheers to that, drama king!" she replied playfully.

Just as they were finishing up their breakfast and clearing the table, Callen's phone chimed, breaking the peaceful atmosphere. He glanced at the caller I.D. and saw that it was Admiral Kilbride calling. He answered with a curt yet professional tone, "Callen speaking."

Admiral Kilbride's voice carried its usual no-nonsense demeanour. "Agent Callen, I just got off the phone with Agent Michael Coldwell of the San Diego office. He's specifically requested your assistance with an op."

Callen's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his mind racing to connect the dots. Coldwell, someone he had worked with back in his C.I.A days, requesting him for a case? He replied with a mix of curiosity and intrigue, "Coldwell? What's the situation?"

Admiral Kilbride's reply was succinct. "It's a Russian gun-smuggler case. You'll receive a full briefing once you're on the ground. They're waiting for you."

His gaze instinctively drifted toward Anna, his thoughts momentarily wandering. He'd been juggling quite a bit lately - wedding plans, everything with the Drona Subjects. Plus, the idea of being away from Anna for an extended period tugged at him; they hadn't spent much time apart lately and there was no telling how long he'd have to be out of the city. The brief hesitation was barely noticeable, but it was there.

"I know you're spinning several plates in the air at the moment, Agent Callen," Admiral Kilbride remarked, his voice perceptive.

Callen's jaw tightened ever so slightly, a flicker of offence crossing his features. "And you think I'll drop one?

The Admiral's tone remained steady. "I'm simply saying I understand you're currently in a precarious situation."

Callen's eyes narrowed slightly as he processed that remark but he made sure to keep his tone neutral. "I know how to take care of business, sir."

"You do," the Admiral readily agreed, his tone a mixture of confidence and assurance. "So, I suggest you get down to San Diego and do exactly that. I'll be in touch."

As the call ended, his mind was already racing, contemplating the upcoming mission. He shifted his gaze to his fiancée, his eyes searching for understanding in her gaze. "That was Admiral Kilbride. Looks like I'm headed down to San Diego on TAD to work an arms-trafficking op with their office."

The blonde's fingers traced circles on the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes lingering on his face as he spoke. The slight furrow in her brows revealed her worry, but her smile and reassuring nod spoke volumes. Anna understood the demands of the job better than many. "Alright. How long do you think you'll be gone?"

Callen let out a sigh, his gaze locking onto hers. "I'm not sure, but it could be a while. You know these things can be unpredictable."

Anna's lips curved into a supportive smile, her voice gentle and reassuring. "True. But duty calls, right?"

Callen nodded back, a mixture of gratitude and reluctance in his eyes, his heart torn between his commitment to his job and his longing to be with her. "Right." He reached across the table and took Anna's hand in his, his grip firm yet gentle, a silent promise of his return. "I promise to be in touch as much as I can."

Anna offered him a reassuring smile, her thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of his hand, her touch a balm to his conflicted emotions. "I know you will. Just make sure you come back in one piece, okay? And try not to get into too much trouble out there – I can't guarantee I won't fly down and drag you back if you do."

Callen's lips curved into a half-smile as he leaned in to press a tender kiss against her forehead, a gesture that conveyed his love and commitment. "Noted. And don't worry, I'll make sure to pack some extra duct tape, just in case." He tried to break through some of the seriousness of the moment.

Anna's lips curled into a playful smile, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Duct tape, huh? You really have all the essentials covered, don't you?"

"Vsegda," he quipped without missing a beat. (Always.)

She pulled him in for a quick kiss. "Khorosho." (Good.)

Heading to their bedroom, he moved with purpose, tossing a couple of essentials into a bag, his movements efficient and practiced. Once finished packing, Callen walked back out to the living room, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he was leaving Anna and had no idea when he'd be able to come home.

Wrapped in each other's arms, they shared a lingering hug, a silent conversation of emotions that hung heavily in the air. With a final, lingering look, Callen stepped out into the front yard, closing the front door firmly behind him. Leaving Anna behind wasn't just about the mission; it was a tug-of-war between his duty and the life he was building. Each step away from her felt like leaving a piece of his heart behind.

The drive down to San Diego then stretched before Callen, a solitary journey that mirrored the uncertainty of the mission ahead of him.

Stepping into the NCIS San Diego office situated in the heart of Liberty Station, Callen was met with a blend of modern efficiency and subtle maritime charm and a touch of nostalgia. It had been a while since he had been back here. The glass entrance door swung open smoothly, revealing a bustling reception area with polished marble floors that mirrored the sunlight streaming in from the large windows.

He started scanning the reception area. Familiar faces bustled around, but one stood out - a tall man with a composed demeanour that he quickly recognized as his former agency contact from his C.I.A days, Michael Coldwell.

Their eyes met across the room, and Coldwell offered a slight nod of acknowledgment. Callen made his way over, and Coldwell swiftly extended a hand in greeting. "Glad you could make it, Callen."

"Likewise," he replied, shaking Coldwell's hand with a firm grip. "Sit-rep?"

Coldwell motioned for Callen to follow him to a nearby conference room. "We've got a Russian arms-trafficking case on our hands. That's where you come in." Callen gave a curt nod. "Given your history and language skills," the man continued, "we figured you would be the right fit for this one."

As they finally entered the conference room, another agent was already waiting there, reviewing some documents under the soft illumination of the room's overhead lights. The walls of the room were adorned with a collection of artifacts that hinted at both the agency's maritime roots and its distinguished history. The agent looked up from her documents, greeting him with a friendly smile.

"Callen, this is Isabella Cortez," Coldwell introduced without missing a beat. "She's met several individuals connected to the local cell before and has agreed to give you some background on them."

He extending his hand to Cortez in greeting. "Nice to meet you, Isabella."

Cortez shook his hand with a warm smile. "Likewise, Grisha."

As they all took their seats around the large table, Coldwell began to brief him on the case. "Our intelligence suggests that a Russian crime syndicate is using San Diego as a hub for their arms trafficking operation. We're still trying to piece together the details, but we believe they're smuggling weapons into the country via cargo shipments and possibly exploiting some local contacts."

Cortez chimed in, her tone serious. "Some of these local guys are slippery; they're cautious and highly unpredictable. Especially, the leader of the cell, Anatoliy Volkov. That's why having you, Callen, with your language skills and your ability to blend in and do deep cover work, is critical."

He leaned forward slightly, absorbing the information. "What's the plan exactly?"

Cortez took over, explaining the details. "You've already been backstopped in order to pose as a potential new member."

He nodded, his mind already strategizing. "Who am I going in as?"

Coldwell handed him a folder containing several documents. "You'll be going in as one of your old aliases from your Moscow days, Dmitriy Petrov." The man gestured to the file he was holding. "All the necessary documents are in there as long with some more recent information on Petrov's life since you pulled out."

He nodded. "Sounds like a plan." Callen started reviewing the alias dossier, memories of his Moscow days and his previous alias, Dmitriy Petrov, flooding back. The familiarity was both comforting and unnerving. He had worked that specific op with Jethro Gibbs which felt like a lifetime ago now. It wasn't an exaggeration when he and Gibbs were discussing it shortly before his shooting at the hands of Ethan Stanhope's men and he had remarked, "Petrov's ass always needed saving."

Dmitriy Aleksandrovich Petrov, born on February 12, 1972, grew up working-class in the Lefortovo district of Moscow with an abusive, single father. The harsh circumstances pushed him to run away from home at the age of sixteen, thrusting the teen into the unforgiving world of street life. Afterwards, he fell in with a gang, taking on the role of a low-level member and engaging in petty crimes. As Dmitriy grew more entangled in dangerous activities, Dmitriy was arrested and imprisoned due to his involvement in riskier endeavours. After his release, he spent some time in Chechnya and bouncing around Western Europe before eventually making his way to the United States and subsequently Los Angeles just three months earlier.

The dossier encompassed a wallet housing an updated driver's license, various cards, a neatly folded birth certificate, and a few miscellaneous items to lend credence to his alias. Notably, the ensemble included a red booklet adorned with a golden emblem of a two-headed eagle, with the Cyrillic 'Российская Федерация' elegantly inscribed at the top - his Russian passport.

Cortez leaned forward, her gaze earnest. "Callen, we've got your six, but remember, this is a high-stakes op. Trust your instincts and stay safe."

He met her gaze with a determined nod. "I will."

The mission briefing continued, with Coldwell and Cortez going over a couple of more details and contingencies with him and he felt a sense of anticipation building. Amid his racing thoughts, strategy interwove with risk assessments, creating a tempestuous whirlwind in his mind. While the operation held undeniable risks, it was also a chance for him to leverage his skills and a surge of determination was coursing through him.

Finally, the mission briefing came to a close. With a final nod of understanding, Callen left the small conference room, ready to dive into the undercover world and hopefully shut the local cell down before people got hurt.

Notes:

Anyone catch my little throwback to the pilot?

Chapter 38: This Line of Work

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a cool, soft glow over the San Diego waterfront. The hum of distant traffic and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the harbour provided a backdrop of ambient sound as he stood in the shadows, adjusting the collar of his jacket. The cold breeze off the ocean brushed against his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of just a few hours earlier.

He glanced down at the driver's licence in his hand, the name "Dmitriy Aleksandrovich Petrov" staring back at him. As he stepped out of the darkness and onto the quiet streets, the weight of his mission settled on his shoulders. The alias wasn't just a cover; it was an entire persona he needed to embody to survive this.

With every step, he drew himself further into the life of the man he was portraying. He walked with purpose, his movements mirroring the confidence and swagger that he'd made part of Dmitriy Petrov all those years ago. It was a dance between his instincts and Petrov's persona, a tightrope walk between two identities.

The rendezvous point loomed ahead – a dimly lit bar nestled among the harbour-side buildings. The neon sign flickered, casting a red glow on the pavement. With measured strides, he walked to the entrance. The bouncer's eyes swept over him, an unspoken evaluation that ended in a nod of permission. The door swung open, revealing a world of dimly lit booths, clinking glasses, and a haze of cigarette smoke that seemed to hang in the air like a veil.

Callen's eyes scanned the room, seeking familiar faces or signs of the operation he had come to disrupt. He noticed a corner booth, where a man sat alone, nursing a drink and staring blankly into space. This was his target, Ivan Kovalenko, one of the mid-level members who would potentially be his way into the syndicate.

Drawing on his training, he eased his way through the crowd, adopting a nonchalant stride as he approached the booth. His heart raced, not just from the tension of the mission, but from the excitement of stepping back into the world of deep-cover work. It had been quite a while now since he'd had the chance.

As he neared the table, Ivan Kovalenko looked up, his eyes meeting Callen's. Ivan's eyes flickered with a mixture of curiosity and caution, his fingers idly tapping on his glass. Callen could tell the man was assessing the situation, his guarded expression revealing more than words ever could.

As Callen slid up to the booth, his heart raced with a blend of anticipation and unease. He reminded himself of the stakes, the thrill of deep cover work he hadn't experienced in years. With a silent exhale, he squared his shoulders, pulling his jacket closer around him. The familiar weight of the mission settled, and with it, a bittersweet thrill that had been absent for too long. He then extended his right hand, his voice adopting the heavy Russian accent he had perfected over the years. "Ivan, yes?"

Ivan's gaze locked onto Callen's, his expression guarded. "Who's asking?"

A shadow of amusement flickered across his features, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes held Ivan's gaze with a calculated mix of confidence and wariness. Keeping up the Russian accent, he introduced himself, "Dmitriy Petrov."

Ivan's lips formed a half-smile, the man's posture relaxing slightly, hinting at a mild amusement. "Chto' ty khochesh'?" Ivan inquired, smoothly transitioning to his native Russian at that point. (What do you want?)

Callen nodded, his fingers tapping idly on the table. "Etо nye to, chto ya khochu. Etо to, chto tebe nuzhno." (It's not what I want. It's what you need.)

"I chto eto?" Ivan questioned. (And what is that?)

He smirked once more. "Tot, kto umeet dovesti delo do kontsa." (Someone who knows how to get things done.)

Ivan's eyes bore into Callen, a shrewd assessment taking place. "Posmotrim," he said, his voice, smooth and measured, cutting through the hum of the bar. Ivan gestured to the empty seat across from him. "Sadis'." (We'll see. Sit.)

Sinking into the chair, a mix of anticipation and anxiety knotted in his stomach, as the gravity of the moment pressed down on him. This was the moment of truth, the first steps into the heart of the operation. As he exchanged words with Ivan in fluent Russian, Callen couldn't help but wonder how deep he would have to dive, how many lines he'd have to blur, to make it happen.

With the chatter of the bar as a backdrop, he embarked on his mission – a tightrope walk between his true identity and the intricate web of deception he had woven. The game was officially afoot.

As Callen settled into the seat, the low murmur of the bar provided a backdrop to their conversation. Ivan's eyes bore into Callen's, his expression calculating. "Itak, Dmitriy, rasskazhite o sebe. Otkuda vy rodom?" (So, Dmitriy, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?)

Callen leaned back, his lips curving into a thoughtful smile. "Ya vyrastal v Moskve. V raione Lefortovo. Zhizn' byla nelegkoy, no ona nauchila menya byt' nakhodchivym." (I grew up in Moscow. In the Lefortovo district. Life wasn't easy, but it taught me to be resourceful.)

Ivan took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving him. "Sem'ya?" (Family?)

His expression grew slightly distant. "Moya mat' umerla, kogda ya byl malen'kim." He then ran his hand over his mouth. "Moy otets byl trudnym chelovekom. Ya dolzhen byl nauchit'sya dobivat' sebe propitaniye samostoyatel'no. Imenno togda ya ponyal, chto mir mozhet byt' surovym, no on takzhe predlagayet vozmozhnosti dlya tekh, kto gotov riskovat'." (My mother died when I was young. My father was difficult. I had to learn to fend for myself. That's when I realized that the world could be harsh, but that it also offered opportunities for those willing to take risks.)

Ivan's eyebrows raised slightly, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "Nu i chto tebya zavelo v eto delo?" (And what led you to this line of work?)

Callen's gaze turned introspective, his fingers tracing a small pattern on the table. "Posle togo kak ya sbezhal v shestnadtsat' let, mne prishlos' vizhivat' na ulitsakh. Ya nauchilsya slivat'sya s tolpoi, ispol'zovat' svoyu smekalku, chtoby byt' na shag vpered. V itoge ya popal v bandu, prosto pyatayas' vizhit'. Ya sovershal malye prestupleniya, ponimate?" (After running away at sixteen, I had to survive on the streets. I learned to blend in, to use my wits to stay one step ahead. I ended up falling in with a gang, just trying to make my way. Did some petty crimes, you know?)

Ivan gave a curt nod. "Ponyatno." (I see.)

"V konce koncov, vse stalo bolee intensivnym. Ya vtyanulsya v bolee riskovannuyu deyatel'nost'. V itoge ya byl arestovan i provel vremya v tyur'me," Callen continued, still in character, although some of the aspects rang a bit too true. (Eventually, things got more intense. I got caught up in some riskier activities, ended up getting arrested and spending time in prison.)

Ivan's lips twitched, a hint of intrigue in his eyes. "A posle togo, kak ty vishel?" (And after you got out?)

He offered a small, wistful smile. "Posle osvobozhdeniya ya provel nekotoroye vremya v Chechne, potom nemnogo pokolesil po Zapadnoy Evrope. No SSHA pokazalis' mne chem-to vrode novogo starta. Okolo trekh mesyatsyev nazad ya okazalsya v Los-Andzhelese." (After my release, I spent some time in Chechnya, then moved around Western Europe for a bit. But the U.S. seemed like a fresh start. Ended up in Los Angeles about three months ago.)

Ivan leaned back in his seat slightly. "Nu ty dayesh', puteshestviye u tebya bylo!" (Quite the journey you've had!)

He gave a small hum of agreement.

Ivan's demeanour seemed to soften slightly as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Znaesh', Dmitriy, v chem-to ya mogu sootnesti vashu istoriyu. Zhizn' nas svoim obrasom ispytyvaet, da?" (You know, Dmitriy, I can relate to your story in some ways. Life has its way of testing us, doesn't it?)

He gave a small nod in response. "Konechno." (Certainly.)

Ivan gave a small tilt of the head. "Nastoyashchaya sila v tom, chtoby adaptirovatsya k takim situatsiyam, da?" (True strength comes from adapting to those turns, don't you think?)

"Absolyutno," he replied, his gaze steady. "Adaptatsiya chasto yavlyaetsya klyuchom k vyzhivaniyul." (Absolutely. Adaptation is often the key to survival.)

Ivan seemed impressed with him, his lips curving into a genuine smile. "Ya schitayu, chto ty mozhesh' mnogoe vnosit', Dmitriy. Na samom dele, zavtra by khotel by pozakomitsya tebya s nekotorymi mоimi sotrudnikami. K lyudyam, tsenyashchim reshitel'nost' i nakhodchivost'." (I believe you have much to offer, Dmitriy. In fact, I'd like you to meet some associates of mine tomorrow. People who value determination and resourcefulness.)

A flicker of curiosity danced in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw betraying Callen's eagerness to learn more. "Dlya menya bylo by chest'yu vstretit'sya s nimi." (I'd be honoured to meet them.)

Ivan's tone was inviting as the man leaned in slightly. "Khorosho. My obsudim plany na budushcheye, vozmozhnosti, kotoryye, kak mne kazhetsya, vam pokazhutsya perspektivnymi." (Good. We'll discuss plans for the future, opportunities that I think you'll find worthwhile.)

"Ladno, zavtra," he said, nodding contentedly, skillfully allowing a trace of excitement to show in his eyes without appearing too eager. (Tomorrow then.)

As he left the dimly lit bar, the weight of the impending meeting with Ivan's associates hung in the air, mingling with the scent of cigarette smoke. The night held a sense of both anticipation and trepidation, a reminder of the intricate dance that he had embarked upon that evening.

The chapter had been set in motion, the pieces were in place, and now, Callen knew, the real test of his abilities was about to unfold. If all went well though then it would be completely worth it.

Chapter 39: Point Mirage

In the soft morning light, the East Village safe house - codenamed Point Mirage - was a hidden refuge amidst the awakening city. Callen moved about the compact living space with practiced grace, preparing for the day ahead. The dark jacket clung to his form, its fabric as weighty as the secrets he carried. It seemed to absorb the shadows of the room, camouflaging him in an aura of mystery. His features were composed, a mask of determination.

Stepping outside, the gentle warmth of the early morning sun brushed against Callen's skin. The city was stirring, a gradual hum of activity permeating the San Diego air. His destination was the Broken Yolk Café, a modest establishment that was nestled amidst the urban landscape, just a block away from his safe house.

Entering the café, the inviting aroma of sizzling bacon as well as freshly brewed coffee enveloped Callen. He observed the scene - the patrons engaging in various conversations, the gentle clinking of cutlery - a snapshot of ordinary life that contrasted sharply with the path he was currently walking.

Approaching the counter, Callen effortlessly adopted a Russian accent, careful not to reveal his American identity to any potential eavesdroppers as he placed his breakfast order. "Morning. I'll take the Double Bacon Sampler, to go."

The server behind the counter met Callen's gaze with a polite smile, a hint of curiosity dancing in her eyes. "And how would you like your eggs, sir?"

He shot her a composed smile. "Over-easy."

As he waited, his thoughts focused on the task ahead, trying to make sure he wasn't forgetting or missing anything that could affect his operation.

Once his meal was ready, Callen collected the to-go bag and left the cafe. He returned to Point Mirage, unpacking the contents of the Double Bacon Sampler—a classic breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, and hash browns; one of his favourites."

After breakfast, he knew he had the entire day until his scheduled meeting with Ivan and the man's associates. With ample time at his disposal, Callen decided to make the most of it.

Callen sat down on the sofa, his cell phone in hand. His fingers tapped on the screen as he dialled a number he knew by heart - Sam Hanna. The connection crackled for a moment before his partner's voice came through, the familiarity of it offering a sense of reassurance to the seasoned operative.

"Hey G, what's up?" Sam's voice was warm and casual.

He leaned back in his chair, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Held up at the safe house. Got a meet later tonight with potential contacts. Just sorting things out."

"A meet already, huh?" Sam replied. "Anything I need to be worried about?"

He chuckled. "You know me, Partner. Always diving into something."

"True," Sam agreed, slight amusement in his tone. "Just make sure you're not diving into trouble, alright?"

"Where's the fun in that?" he quipped. "So, what's the latest on your end?"

Sam's voice turned more serious. "We're knee-deep in a case here. Navy reservist got knifed. Lab's swarming with bugs and toxins. Someone ransacked the place. We're still trying to piece together what happened."

His brow furrowed, concern evident in his voice. "Sounds like a mess. Any leads?"

Sam's tone held a touch of frustration. "Not much at the moment. We're looking into his connections and trying to figure out if there's a motive behind the attack."

"Good luck with that, Big Guy," he quipped. "Sounds like you've got your hands full."

"Definitely do," Sam replied. "Just be careful with whatever you're getting into, G. Let us know if you need anything."

"I will," he agreed. It's weird not having Sam watching my six on this one.

Ending the call with Sam, Callen then dialled another number he knew by heart - his fiancée's. The phone rang a few times before Anna's voice came through, a mix of curiosity and warmth.

He could hear if not see the smile as she spoke. "Callen, how are you?"

He leaned back, a genuine smile gracing his features. "I'm good. Just staying busy."

Anna's tone shifted slightly, a touch of concern entering her voice. "No unexpected complications, I hope?"

"Nah," he assured her. "Just got a meeting later tonight, doing some background research. You know, sem' raz otmer', odin raz otrezh'. Wanted to catch up while I had the chance." (Measure seven times, cut once.)

She gave a little hum, her voice carrying a mixture of affection and concern. "Da. Just promise me you'll be careful. We know too well how fast things can go wrong." (Yeah.)

"I know, Honey. Taking all the precautions I can," he reassured her. "So, what's on your agenda for today?"

With the day stretched out before him, he decided to use the time to hone his skills and knowledge. He began by reviewing advanced Russian phrases from a language book, ensuring that his cover identity remained impeccable. Then, Callen dedicated several hours to going over every piece of information Cortez was able to get him on the few known members of the local cell.

The clock ticked, and as the hours passed, his anticipation grew. The meeting with Ivan and the associates was still hours away, but he was already focusing on the task at hand. Callen was determined to approach the upcoming encounter with the utmost caution and readiness. Still, a fleeting doubt crossed his mind. The weight of his mission seemed heavier than ever, pressing against his determination.

The sun hung low in the sky as Callen stood outside the designated meeting spot that evening, a discreet coffee shop tucked away in a quiet corner of the city.

As the door to the café jingled behind him, his heart galloped in his chest. Anticipation mingled with the bitter taste of caution, a duet of emotions that tugged at Callen's determination. The events of the previous night played in his mind as he reviewed his cover story once more, readying himself to meet Ivan's associates for the first time.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee immediately enveloped him. Callen scanned the coffee shop, his eyes sharp, searching for faces that matched the descriptions that Ivan had given him. Spotting Ivan and several other individuals seated at the corner table, he approached the group with purposeful strides.

The associates were a diverse bunch, each radiating an air of authority and intrigue. As Callen neared the table, he noted their subtle nods of acknowledgment, gauging their various reactions. Ivan, already seated, extended a hand, gesturing for Callen to take a seat in the chair beside him.

"Privet, my friend! Let me introduce you," Ivan began, his voice carrying a clear note of respect. "Dmitriy Petrov, this is Natalia, Yuri, and Sasha. They are valuable comrades in our operation." He then gestured to another man. "And this is Anatoliy."

Callen nodded politely to each member, his gaze steady and confident, his Russian accent seamlessly intact. If Anatoliy Volkov was here then he really couldn't afford to make the slightest misstep. "Nice to meet you all."

Natalia, an enigmatic woman with sharp eyes, spoke first with what Callen could tell was a Northern accent. "We've heard intriguing things about you, Dmitriy. Ivan seems impressed with you, particularly with your resourcefulness."

He maintained his role, offering a humble smile. "I appreciate the kind words. I believe in getting things done, no matter the obstacles."

Anatoliy, a man with a calculating demeanour, leaned forward and spoke with the Central accent Callen had picked up back when he was living in Moscow all those years. "Resourcefulness in our line of work, it is essential." Anatoliy then tilted his head slightly. "Please, share more of your experiences with us."

"See if half of what Ivan said is true," Yuri quipped in his own Central accent, shooting Callen a look of mild amusement. "He likes exaggeration, that one."

Ivan rolled his eyes but didn't comment.

As Callen recounted a few more fabricated stories of his past endeavours, he kept a keen eye on their reactions, gauging their interest and discerning which details they found most appealing.

Sasha, also from the Moscow area and the youngest of the group, seemed particularly curious. "You've had quite the journey, Dmitriy. But what can you bring to our team?"

He leaned in slightly, his eyes locking onto Sasha's. "I bring dedication and ability to adapt easily to any situation. I am committed to our shared goals."

The conversation flowed seamlessly as Callen expertly navigated his way through the discussion, highlighting his skills and demonstrating his potential value to the team. Each associate seemed genuinely intrigued, evaluating his words and demeanour with a mix of scrutiny and interest.

As the meeting progressed, Anatoliy took a moment to address him directly. "Dmitriy, your story is impressive, and your attitude aligns well with our objectives. We value loyalty and resourcefulness above all."

Natalia's gaze locked onto his, her tone measured. "So, we have job that demands a unique skill set, Dmitriy. We need someone who can handle pressure."

A flicker of interest gleamed in Callen's eyes, his head tilting slightly in a subtle nod. He maintained the unwavering composure he'd cultivated. "I'm ready to take on the challenge. What do you need?"

Yuri leaned in, his gaze piercing into Callen's, a challenge underlying the man's serious demeanour. "We have an arms deal happening between a rival group and an outside buyer. We need someone to provide backup in case things go crosswise."

His heart quickened at the gravity of the assignment, his mind already formulating a plan. "Backup for an arms deal? I can handle that, like sipping kvass."

Sasha's eyes held a hint of curiosity and amusement in them. "And you are prepared to deal with the potential dangers? It's high-stakes situation."

Callen's gaze remained steady. "I've faced danger before. I understand risks, and I will ensure operation's success."

Anatoliy, who was watching the exchange closely, spoke up. "You'll be working closely with Yuri. He'll lead, and you'll follow. Coordination will be key."

He nodded in acknowledgment, his resolve unwavering. "Understood."

Anatoliy's lips then curved into a faint smile, the lines of his face shifting in approval. "Remember, Dmitriy, this is a test of your skills. If you succeed, you'll be one step closer to proving your worth to us. Chtoby stat' nashego brata." (To becoming our brother.)

Callen met the man's gaze with determination and dipped his head slightly. "Ya vas ne podvedu." (I won't let you down.)

Anatoliy's gaze bore into Callen's, his voice carrying both a stern warning and a subtle challenge. The heaviness of Anatoliy's gaze conveyed not just caution, but a demand for nothing less than perfection. "Pozabot'tes', chtoby takogo ne proizoshlo." (See to it that you don't.)

With the meeting concluded, Callen left the coffee shop feeling energized. He knew the upcoming arms deal would be a significant opportunity to get a solid understanding of the group's methods and dynamics and Callen was determined to make the most of it. The stakes were higher than ever, and the pressure to prove himself was palpable.

As Callen exited the café, the brisk evening air brushed against his skin, heightening his senses. The weight of the assignment hung over him, a reminder of the trust that had been placed in him. He knew that gaining the associates' confidence required not just storytelling but actions that demonstrated his dedication to their cause.

The next few days blurred into a whirlwind of preparations. Blueprints and layouts for the arms deal location sprawled across the table as he pored over them, scrutinizing every corner, every escape route, every potential obstacle he could think of. Callen further familiarized himself with the types of weapons that would be exchanged as well, immersing himself in all the details to ensure that he would be able to adapt to any and all unexpected twists.

Yuri, who he was working closely with, proved to be a stern yet informative ally. They spent hours strategizing and fine-tuning the operation. Callen was impressed by Yuri's calculated approach and attention to detail, traits that he knew were essential in their respective lines of work.

As the day of the arms deal approached, Callen's focus sharpened. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was a familiar companion, a reminder of his past and the dangers he had faced before. He mentally reviewed the plan one last time, his mind a well-oiled machine ready to execute flawlessly.

The night of the operation was tense. Callen positioned himself at a discreet vantage point, overlooking the meeting site. He watched as the rival group's representatives arrived, their movements cautious and calculated. As the exchange began, Callen's senses heightened, his attention fixated on every detail.

When the situation suddenly took an unexpected turn, Callen's instincts kicked in. He swiftly moved into action, positioning himself strategically to provide the backup that Ivan and the associates needed. Gunfire erupted, and chaos ensued as the arms deal turned into a violent confrontation.

Decades of training surged to the forefront, guiding Callen's movements with an instinctual precision. Every step was a testament to the hours spent honing his craft. His precise shots helped shift the balance in their favour, creating an opening for Ivan and the others to gain the upper hand as they fought back with a vengeance. Callen dove for cover, his heart pounding as he strategically neutralized the closest threats, each move calculated for maximum impact. Before long, the rival group was subdued, all of their weapons seized by the syndicate, and the immediate danger neutralized.

As the dust settled, Callen's breaths came in ragged gasps, his body still charged with the electric buzz of exhilaration from the recent engagement. It hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd hoped but he'd likely earned some more trust from the local cell members now after a successful operation. Ivan approached him, a look of approval in his eyes.

"You handled that well," Ivan said, his voice carrying a hint of respect. "Your skills were crucial to our victory."

Callen nodded, his focus shifting to the associates who had placed their trust in him. Ivan, Natalia, and the others approached, their expressions a mix of satisfaction and assessment.

Natalia's gaze, piercing as a blade, held Callen's own captive. "Resourcefulness is rare currency," the woman mused, a hint of respect in her voice. "Minting it takes action, Dmitriy - actions like yours."

Yuri's voice was measured as he chimed in and Callen's mind raced with questions - What does Yuri really think of me? Am I earning his trust? I know that he's reporting back to Anatoliy. "Indeed. Now, this was only beginning, Dmitriy. We have more work ahead, but you've shown us you're capable."

He met their gazes head-on, a quiet fire burning in his eyes. "I'm committed to this cause," he stated firmly, his voice unwavering, "I'll continue proving my loyalty."

"Good," Ivan said. "Anatoliy would like to meet you tomorrow."

"For what purpose?" he inquired.

Ivan gave him a small smile. "To discuss another job he has arranged."

As the afternoon drew to a close, Callen felt a sense of accomplishment unlike any he had experienced before. The arms deal had been a test, a trial by fire that Callen had successfully overcome. He knew that his journey with the syndicate was far from over. Still, Callen was determined to seize every opportunity to gather as much intel on the local cell as he possibly could.

Chapter 40: Coming To A Head

In the midst of a restless sleep, Callen found himself sitting in his old Interrogations classroom at Drona. Around Callen, the other subjects in his cohort whispered and murmured, but he wasn't paying attention. His gaze was unfocused, his mind firmly elsewhere as he stared at the chalkboard without truly seeing it.

His headteacher, Mr. Pembrook, loomed at the front of the classroom, his voice a droning backdrop to the fourteen-year-old’s disconnected thoughts . "This information is crucial, subjects. The art of interrogation is not only about extracting the truth; it's about understanding the nuances of human behaviour."

Callen's mind remained distant, Mr. Pembrook's words fading into the background as memories of the Rostoff family consumed his thoughts. A couple of days ago, his social worker had removed him from their home without explanation. Now in a group home, the ache of their absence gnawed at his heart, each recollection a pang of bittersweet longing that tightened his chest.

The Rostoffs had given him rare stability, and he'd grown attached to Alina as well whom he affectionately called his "malen'kaya sestra" or little sister. Unfairly, it had fallen apart again, leaving him alone and questioning why.

Mr. Pembrook's voice cut through his reverie, jolting him back to the present like a splash of cold water. "Subject Seventeen, care to enlighten us with your thoughts?"

He blinked, his mind struggling to catch up with the present. He met Mr. Pembrook's gaze with a distant look, a mask of indifference that masked the turmoil within.

Mr. Pembrook's eyes narrowed, the man's patience wearing thin. "You're here to learn, Seventeen. To absorb knowledge that will serve you in our line of work."

His voice was barely audible, his defiance simmering beneath the surface. "And what if I don't want this line of work?"

Mr. Pembrook's lips curved into a chilling smile, a hint of amusement dancing in his cold gaze. "You've been quite the troublemaker this week, Seventeen." The man glanced around the room and then back at the struggling fourteen-year-old. "Since Subject Seventeen sees fit to disregard and disrupt, perhaps the rest of you can help him see the error of his ways."

A jolt of fear shot through him as the others closed in on him, his skin prickling as if touched by an icy breeze. Their eyes held a shared understanding of Mr. Pembrook's orders. He tried to back away, but there was nowhere to run. The first blow landed, a force that sent shockwaves through his body. Callen stumbled, his vision blurring as the blows rained down on him from all sides. Through gritted teeth, he repeated the lesson he'd been told countless times in training: Pain is just a state of mind. He clung to those words like a lifeline, letting them help drown out the pain just as he had been taught by Mr. Pembrook.

Pain radiated through Callen's limbs, his body a canvas for their aggression. He curled into a defensive ball, the weight of their fists a relentless assault on his senses. "Don't cry, crying causes pain." The words were a mantra, a desperate attempt to hold back the pain that threatened to break through.

And then, just as the darkness threatened to consume him, the nightmare shattered like glass. Callen's eyes flew open, his chest heaving as he jolted awake in the safety of the present.

Callen's breaths were ragged, his heart pounding against his ribcage as he struggled to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. He sat up in bed, his body drenched in sweat, his mind still reeling from the visceral intensity of the experience. Memories of Drona had a way of resurfacing when he least expected them.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment. With a sigh, Callen then pushed himself up, his body protesting as he stretched out the tension that had settled in his muscles. Regardless, it wasn't like he was going to get much more sleep that morning anyway.

Walking into the safe house's kitchen, it was awash in the soft glow of dawn, the early morning light casting elongated shadows across the counters and appliances. Callen's footsteps echoed faintly as he moved across the tiled floor."

Slowly, Callen turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face. The cold liquid shocked his senses, grounding Callen in the present. Leaning against the counter, he stared out the window. The soft light filtering through the windows was casting a muted glow over the safe house's kitchen. Callen's breathing steadied as he leaned against the counter, his gaze fixed on the city beyond.

With a determined shake of his head, he straightened and reached for a dishtowel, drying his face. The cold water had helped ground him, and Callen felt the lingering tendrils of panic begin to recede. He knew that he couldn't afford to be consumed by memories - not now, not when there was a mission at hand.

As the sun began to rise, casting a warm golden glow across the city, Callen got ready and made his way to a rather nondescript building downtown for the meeting Anatoliy Volkov had requested. Adjusting the collar of his coat, Callen made sure his wire was properly concealed before taking a deep breath and stepping inside.

The interior was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. He scanned the bar until his eyes landed on a man he recognized as Anatoliy Volkov, Yuri and Ivan standing at Anatoliy's side, their eyes both welcoming and assessing as they took in the familiar newcomer.

Callen approached with a confident stride, his demeanour a balance between respect and familiarity. "Anatoliy," he greeted with an accented voice, extending a hand out to the cell's leader.

Anatoliy's grip was firm as they shook hands, his calloused fingers leaving a further impression of authority. "Dmitriy, thank you for coming."

He offered a faint smile. "Of course."

Anatoliy motioned toward a table in the corner. "Let us discuss business, da?"

Callen followed Anatoliy's lead and moved to the corner table, his senses on high alert as he assessed the room. As they both took their seats, Anatoliy signalled for Yuri and Ivan to sit down as well.

Anatoliy's voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone, the man's eyes locking onto Callen's intently. "Dmitriy, my friend, I believe our news will intrigue you. We have a job set to happen in a couple of days."

A subtle lift of his brows and a spark in his eyes betrayed his hidden curiosity, even as he fought to maintain his composed façade. "Details?"

Anatoliy opened the folder and slid a set of surveillance photographs across the table. As the photographs and documents landed in front of him, the spark of interest grew within him. He masked his eagerness, however, maintaining a controlled exterior.

"High-caliber weapons shipment, disguised as electronics, docks in two days," Anatoliy informed him. "We have the route, the timing, and the involved players."

"Initial surveillance indicates the security guards rotate shifts at ten o'clock," Yuri said. "That's when the guard presence will be at its lowest."

"How long was the initial surveillance period?" he inquired.

"Three weeks," Ivan said. "Our intel is reliable."

His eyes studied the photographs and documents, his mind already racing to assess his options and what his next play should be. "Tradecraft is a dying art. Good to see attention to details." If he and Sam set up on a target to run surveillance they'd normally do it for two or three weeks to chart the mark's habits, patterns… minimum.

"Indeed," Anatoliy said, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Amateurs, we are not."

As the meeting concluded and Callen left the dimly lit building, he knew that time was of the essence. Callen retrieved his cell from his pocket and dialled a slightly familiar number for his current handler at the San Diego office.

After a few rings, a voice answered on the other end. "Michael Coldwell."

"Hey, it's Callen," he explained, not bothering to use his alias as he was alone at the safe house. "I got an update for you. An upcoming arms smuggling job. The op is set for the night of the twenty-eighth."

There was a pause, and he imagined Coldwell processing the urgency of the situation on the other end. "I see. Nice work, Callen. We need to act swiftly on this."

He nodded to himself, even though Coldwell couldn't see him. "Agreed. This one's big, Coldwell. We can't afford any slip-ups."

"Send me all the details," Coldwell requested. "I'll coordinate with a team to ensure a smooth takedown. And we'll have a detailed extraction plan for you once the operation is complete."

"Stay vigilant," Coldwell advised him. "I'll be in touch soon to finalize the details. And remember, man, watch your six."

"Always," he replied.

As he hung up the phone, the afternoon sun cast a warm glow through the window, painting the room in golden hues.

With a determined sigh, he leaned back slightly in his chair, his mind still buzzing from the conversation with Coldwell. The urgency of the situation weighed heavily on him. When these things come to a head, that's usually when they go south.

Chapter 41: Masks of Loyalty

The moon hung low in the sky as Callen and the Russian cell, under the watchful eye of Anatoliy Volkov, geared up in the shadows. The arms smuggling operation was in motion, and their meticulous planning was about to be put to the test. Callen checked his watch, his heart beating in sync with the seconds ticking away.

Anatoliy's voice cut through the clear tension in the air, a blade of authority and quiet intensity. "Remember, comrades, we execute with utmost cleanliness and discretion. Errors are not an option."

The collective nod that rippled through the group conveyed their commitment to the task at hand. Callen's eyes met Anatoliy's, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. This operation was a high-stakes game, and they were all in.

Though his facade of loyalty remained convincing, it was a mask that required effort to hold. Beneath it, a jittery unease took root, coiling around his chest, constricting as the moment of truth approached. As he glanced at Anatoliy, Callen knew that the man was even more on edge and maintaining his cover perfectly was even more important if he wanted to make it out of this.

With each step they took, the group moved with the precision of a well-coordinated unit. His acting skills were put to the test, portraying a new member eager to prove himself. Anatoliy's presence loomed large, and he felt the weight of the expectations.

As they closed in on the guarded warehouse, every nerve in Callen's body was on high alert, each gunshot a sharp percussion that echoed through his bones. He could taste the metallic tang of fear in the back of his throat, and the sensation of sweat-slicked skin beneath his tactical gear sent shivers down his spine.

Callen carefully watched the guards' movements, his mind a whirlwind of calculations. Each step brought him closer to the edge of a precipice where his loyalty to NCIS and the mask he had to wear danced a dangerous tango.

The guards fell with practiced ease, crumpling to the ground unconscious but alive - a testament to the precision of their execution. A fact that Callen was quite thankful for. Yuri's lips quirked in a satisfied half-smile, a fleeting acknowledgment of the group's successful performance.

Anatoliy's eyes narrowed, his voice low but commanding. "Stay focused, everyone. We adhere strictly to the plan."

Ivan nodded. "Vor v zakone is right." The words echoed in Callen's mind as he fought to suppress the unease that churned within him.

Callen's training was in full swing, his movements fluid and efficient as they continued the task at hand. The arms shipment was secured, and he felt a huge surge of relief - at least that part of it was done. They weren't out of the woods yet though.

But then the cell was caught off guard by the arrival of federal agents. As the federal agents closed in on them, Yuri's eyes widened imperceptibly, his controlled exterior cracking ever so slightly to reveal a flicker of unease. Callen's heart raced but he maintained his cover, following Anatoliy's lead.

The acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the sea breeze, a jarring reminder of the danger that hung in the air. As the gunfire intensified, his acting was then put to another test - still appearing loyal to the cell while he secretly worked to ensure the success of the federal agents now on scene.

Amid the firefight, Callen's thoughts were racing. He exchanged a glance with Ivan, concealing his true emotions beneath a mask of determination. Anatoliy's orders guided their movements, and Callen followed suit, his acting seamless even as his heart pounded with anxiety at how bad this could end.

As the firefight continued, Anatoliy's strategic thinking was evident. The man directed the cell's movements, ensuring they remained coordinated and focused. Beneath his calm facade, a surge of doubt prickled Callen's mind as he listened to Anatoliy's calls while simultaneously trying to appear to realistically attack and fight but not harm the federal agents involved.

Bullets whizzed by, and his pulse quickened. He listened intently as Anatoliy engaged in negotiations with the federal agents, his acting mirroring the conflict within him. His disgust with the cell's ideals clashed with how he needed to act.

A tense knot formed in Callen's stomach as he witnessed one of the NCIS agents take a bullet in the chest. At least it looks like the tactical vest took the bullet.

His chest tightened, and the bile of disgust rose in his throat, but Callen swallowed it down as he met Anatoliy's unflinching gaze who seemed unaware of his internal battle. Relief surged through him. For a moment, he had wondered if he'd accidentally blown his cover by reacting.

As the dawn painted the sky with delicate hues, the relentless gunfire from moments just before finally subsided, casting an eerie calm over the dock. Amidst the tension, an uneasy ceasefire fell among the combatants.

The brief lull in gunfire felt like a breath of respite for him, but the tension remained palpable. Callen's fingers flexed involuntarily, anticipation coursing through his veins. His unflinching facade remained intact, his steely gaze locking with Anatoliy's.

In a swift and coordinated move, the federal agents closed in, seizing the moment to gain control. Sasha's desperation culminated in one final, futile attempt to resist. The crack of a gunshot cut through the air, and time seemed to slow as Sasha's eyes widened and reflected in a mix of shock and defeat. A single bullet had found its mark, piercing the man's chest and abruptly ending his rebellion.

As Sasha crumpled to the ground, the blaring of sirens sliced through the night air, a jarring contrast to the fading echoes of gunfire. Approaching reinforcements injected urgency into the already charged atmosphere, their sirens wailing like a countdown to a final showdown.

The extraction operation was in motion. Amidst the shuffle of boots and the clatter of weapons being lowered, a commanding voice rose above the sea of hushed murmurs. It was the lead agent, Coldwell, the man's tone firm and unwavering, who started to read his Miranda rights to him.

"Dmitriy Petrov, you have the right to remain silent," Coldwell recited smoothly, a touch of disgust in the man's voice. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." Callen rolled his eyes a tad arrogantly as he was Mirandized. "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you."

The weight of the words hung heavily in the air, a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. As the handcuffs clicked around his wrists, his emotions churned beneath his practiced mask of composure. The cold metal against his skin was a harsh reminder of his current reality. Yet, Callen's gaze remained steady and unyielding.

Amidst the echoes of those rights, all the remaining members of the local cell found themselves being apprehended as well. Within minutes, Callen, his hands now bound by handcuffs, was being led away, his gaze never betraying the complexities of his emotions. His loyalty to NCIS was buried and locked away from prying eyes beneath layers of deception, and a sense of urgency as he was finally extracted and walked toward a federal vehicle.

"The game's up, Petrov. We've got you dead to rights," Coldwell said, his voice dripping with a mix of triumph and disdain as Callen was escorted to the vehicle.

Callen met Agent Coldwell's gaze evenly, still keeping up with his Russian accent. "Just trying to make a living, Agent."

Coldwell's snort held a note of grudging amusement, underscored by the unyielding edge of disdain. "You're not the first and won't be the last to make that excuse."

As Callen settled into the backseat of the black Dodge Charger, the handcuffs digging into his wrists, his mind continued to race. The plan had worked, but he knew that the fallout was only just beginning.

The hours that followed were a blur of stark lighting and sterile surroundings. Standing in the lobby of the Metropolitan Correctional Centre, Callen felt a shiver of anticipation, his eyes darting around as if searching for any familiar faces that might connect him to his true identity.

"Step up to the counter," one of the intake officers ordered, the man's voice carrying the weight of authority. "We need to process your information."

Callen approached the counter, his expression carefully neutral as he met the officer's gaze. Officer Anderson's fingers danced nimbly across the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the screen as he began the intake process. "What's your full legal name?" the officer asked, his tone brisk and his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Callen's expression for any signs of hesitation.

Callen met the officer's gaze with a practiced blend of nonchalance and apprehension as he replied. "Dmitriy Aleksandrovich Petrov."

"Any aliases?" Officer Anderson then asked.

Callen gave a small shake of the head. "No."

The officer's gaze lingered on his face, curiosity evident. "You seem unusually calm for someone in your situation."

His lips curled into a half-smile. "Let's just say I've had some practice."

"Hmm." The officer's suspicion visibly ebbed as his fingers moved across the keyboard, his eyes now fixed on the screen. "Your place and date of birth?"

He bit back his annoyance at the situation, it was necessary after all if he wanted to help keep his cover intact. "Born on February 12, 1972, in Moscow, Russia."

Officer Anderson nodded before continuing with his questioning. "Have you ingested any drugs or alcohol in the last twenty-four hours?" The young intake officer's fingers hovered over the keyboard, waiting for Callen’s response.

His head moved in a slight negative gesture. "None whatsoever."

"Do you have any history of substance abuse?" the officer inquired.

His eyebrow twitched involuntarily at the mention of substance abuse. He quickly recovered, but couldn't hide the initial reaction completely so gave the only answer that he could. "Yes, alcohol."

The officer's fingers moved across the keyboard once again, entering the information. "Do you have any medical conditions, allergies, or medications we need to note?"

He shook his head. "No, none."

The next half-hour stretched on as Callen navigated the meticulous steps of the booking and processing procedure. All the while, he made a deliberate effort to keep his gaze lowered, his expression neutral, and his adopted accent firmly in place. His mind was a chaotic swirl of thoughts. Each fingerprint taken was a harsh reminder of how deep he was in the charade.

The officers working the booking desk carried on with their duties, unaware of the intricate web of deception that Callen was participating in. Agent Coldwell's presence remained a constant reminder of his current predicament, and he gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched as he endured the intake process.

"Here you go," the officer said, handing over a set of clothes that he was more familiar with than he'd like to admit. "Change into these."

He nodded subtly, his expression remaining neutral as he accepted the clothes. He held the prison jumpsuit in his hands, the garish orange fabric standing out starkly against the surroundings. With a fleeting glance toward Agent Coldwell, he headed toward a corner to change, a sense of discomfort settling in his chest.

Returning to the holding cell, he settled onto the cold, hard bench. It wasn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but exhaustion had a way of taking over and this wasn't his first rodeo, so to speak. Callen's eyes closed, and the echoes of the events from earlier that night danced in his mind. The tension, the adrenaline, the constant balancing act of his undercover role – they all played out like a vivid movie reel.

In his brief moments of rest, his mind wandered between moments of triumph and doubt. The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside roused him, and he blinked his eyes open as the door to the cell swung open. A Corrections Officer stood there, the man's expression a mixture of indifference and routine.

"Let's move, Petrov," Officer Hernández ordered, the man's voice a mix of fatigue from countless similar procedures. "You're being taken to your assigned cell in Cellblock C. Keep pace and follow my lead."

That night, amidst the dim, cold surroundings of his cell, he lay on the thin mattress, staring up at the unforgiving ceiling. The distant sounds of muffled conversations and the occasional clinking of metal bars grabbed his attention. The flickering overhead lights cast erratic shadows across the walls, and Callen closed his eyes and breathed deeply in an earnest attempt to fall asleep.

But sleep remained elusive, it never being Callen's strong suit. His body might have been weary, but his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, memories, and the lingering echoes of the day's events. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that might let him actually get some semblance of rest.

The following morning dawned sooner than expected, sunlight filtering through the narrow window of his cell. It was then that a Corrections Officer arrived, his footsteps echoing in the corridor. The cell door swung open, and the officer's voice broke the silence. "Petrov, it looks like today's your lucky day. You're being released." Officer Henwood's eyes lingered just a moment too long on Callen's face, a hint of suspicion flickering before it faded and the man impatiently gestured for him to hurry up.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a bitter aftertaste lingering from the close call. But, he pushed himself up from the bench, the fatigue still evident in his movements. A quiet sigh escaped Callen's lips, his tense shoulders relaxing imperceptibly as he was escorted out of the tiny prison cell. The end of this particular ordeal brought with it an unspoken sense of relief.

The stark surroundings of the prison seemed less oppressive in the morning light. Callen's hands were no longer bound by handcuffs, a small but significant gesture that signalled his release. Officer Henwood slid a sealed plastic bag across the counter, labelled 'Property of D. Petrov' to him that contained the few items that had been taken off of him early on during the intake process as well as as the bag that contained the clothes that he'd been wearing when he was admitted.

The process of being released felt strangely detached, as if he were moving through a haze. The corrections officer's instructions were concise – sign here, initial there – and then he found himself standing outside the prison, a free man once again. The fresh air was a welcome change, even if it was tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

Sam's raised brow met his exhausted gaze. "Rough night?"

His lips curled into a tired smile. "I've had worse."

As Sam drove them away from the prison, buildings and streets blended into a blurry tapestry as the city passed by. Callen's mind was still processing the whirlwind of events, and he couldn't help but replay the different scenarios in his head. The release had gone rather smoothly, but that didn't mean his cover wouldn't yet get burned.

His cell phone started buzzing and Sam tossed it to him. He glanced at the screen and his eyes noticeably softened, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was a text from Anna: 'Hey, sorry I couldn't pick you up. Kinsey Investigations had a case come up. Be home later. Take care.'

Callen typed out a quick response, assuring her that he was fine and understood the situation. After pocketing his phone, he shifted his attention to his partner who was now asking him a question.

"So, what's the plan now?" Sam said, his voice breaking the silence even as his eyes remained locked on the road ahead.

Callen leaned back in his seat, his gaze drifting to the passing buildings. "First, I need a shower and some actual food. Then, I guess it's time to debrief."

A hot shower was a luxury he had been looking forward to since the moment he had been extracted from the operation. As he stepped into the warm water, he let out a long breath, the tension slowly melting away. The events of the previous night played out in his mind like a movie, each scene vivid and intense. He scrubbed away the grime and sweat, the sensation of cleanliness a welcome change from the gritty reality he had just emerged from.

Once he was dressed in fresh clothes and felt more like himself, Callen made his way to OSP for his debriefing with Deputy Director Ochoa. The usually empty office where they debriefed was dimly lit, and the air was charged with a sense of urgency. The Deputy Director's gaze was steady as he listened to Callen's rather detailed account of the operation, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the table.

"Good work, Agent Callen," Ochoa remarked, his voice a mixture of approval and relief. "You kept your cover intact and managed to ensure the safety of the federal agents involved in the takedown."

He nodded, his expression composed. "All in a day's work, sir."

Deputy Director Ochoa's lips quirked in a faint smile. "Nonetheless, good work. Now, go home. Take the rest of the day off." Callen was about to protest but swiftly got cut off. "You've earned it."

As Callen left the briefing room, a sense of accomplishment mingled with the fatigue that had settled into his bones. He took a deep breath, the weight of the operation slowly lifting from his shoulders. The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the City of Angels.

Callen decided to take a leisurely stroll through a nearby park, his thoughts a mix of reflection and anticipation. The events of the past few days had been intense, and now he could finally exhale and relax, if only for a little while. And he couldn't wait to see Anna; he'd missed her while in San Diego.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, evening settled in, and Callen found himself back at home. The exhaustion that had been gnawing at him all day was finally catching up, and Callen settled onto the couch with a contented sigh. The front door opened, and his favourite blonde walked in, a tired but genuine smile on her face.

"Hey," she greeted softly, kicking off her shoes.

He smiled in return, his gaze meeting hers. "Hey."

Anna's footsteps marked her approach, her presence a soothing anchor as she settled down next to him on the couch. The blonde then leaned her head against his shoulder. "A long couple of days?"

"That's one way to put it," he replied with a slight chuckle, his arm smoothly wrapping around his fiancée's shoulders.

As they sat in comfortable silence, the events of the past few days felt like a distant memory, replaced by the warmth of Anna's presence and the peace that settled over them. The challenges of his job were temporarily set aside, and he couldn't help but feel grateful for the moments of respite that life occasionally offered.

Chapter 42: Unforeseen Disruptions

In the early morning light, the scent of fresh coffee, blini, and sizzling bacon wafted through the kitchen as Anna skillfully moved around the kitchen. Callen leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the blonde with a smile. The rhythmic sizzle and enticing aroma was making him quite hungry.

A loud knock echoed through the house, and Anna shot a knowing look. "That'll be my father," she said, setting the spatula on the counter and heading to the door.

"Yeah," he agreed, following Anna over to the front door to greet the elder Kolcheck.

As the front door opened, Arkady Kolcheck walked in, wearing an amused expression. Without missing a beat, he pulled Anna into a warm embrace, placing a tender kiss on her cheek. "Dobroye utro, moya Annushka." (Good morning, my Annushka.)

Anna gave her father a small but warm smile. "Dobroye utro, papa." (Good morning, Dad.)

The older man turned to him and nodded. "Grisha."

He dipped his head slightly. "Morning, Arkady."

Arkady glanced at the spread on the table and raised an eyebrow. "Blini and bacon? You spoil us, Anna."

His fiancée chuckled, eyeing Arkady. "You mean the way to your heart is through your stomach?" She threw her arms in the air. "I'm shocked."

Callen rolled his eyes. “Said no-one ever,” he quipped. 

As they settled around the kitchen table, the morning unfolded with the clinking of utensils and the warmth of shared stories. Arkady started regaling them with some anecdotes that Callen could've done without, but then again Arkady had never really understood the concept of oversharing. They were pretty tame this morning at least, compared to some of the man's stories.

Midway through a story about some gala Arkady had attended, Callen's phone buzzed, breaking the lighthearted atmosphere. He glanced at the screen and replied to the text with a faint apologetic smile.

Anna raised an eyebrow but didn't press him, knowing Callen would explain if he was able to. And he did. "Sorry, but it's about Leah Novak. I have to go in."

Anna recognized the name immediately, of course, but a mild look of confusion flickered across Arkady’s face. "Leah Novak? Who is this girl? New co-worker?"

Callen sighed. Well, he was going to find out eventually. "She's a C.I.A officer currently in a coma. Also another kid from the Drona Project."

"The Drona Project?" Arkady asked, evidently unfamiliar with the name. He’d heard rumours of a program, that didn’t mean he knew its name. 

"Yeah," he confirmed. "Hetty's spy training program; that's what it was called."

"I thought you said Henrietta never trained you?" Arkady said cheekily, referring to when the older man had referenced Callen being able to understand Anna's experience at the Institute of Noble Maidens due to being trained as a child himself.

Anna exchanged a quick glance with Callen, her expression shifting briefly before she spoke. "Hetty didn't train Grisha directly, but there's more to the story. It's honestly a little complicated."

Arkady's curiosity lingered, but he nodded, accepting the partial explanation for now.

"Apparently there were a few blanks in my memory," he added by way of explanation.

Arkady playfully tapped his head. “It’s like I told you before, old friend… your head is like thermometer.”

He rolled his eyes. "I still have no idea what that means." He then adopted a more serious look. "Anyway, Leah's protection detail is moving her this morning."

"Did something happen?" Anna asked in concern.

"It's just preemptive," he assured her, "but I've gotta go." Callen then quickly excused himself from the table to get ready, leaving the two Kolchecks to continue discussing Arkady's latest bizarre anecdote.

As Callen grabbed his keys, Anna walked over to him, giving him a light peck on the cheek. "Watch your six."

He gave her a reassuring smile, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I always do. Besides, it's just a routine check. You know how it goes."

Callen sped towards the hospital, knowing the situation was time-sensitive. Arriving at the medical facility, Callen quickly found the head of Leah's protection detail, C.I.A Officer Chris Behr. Or as Callen vaguely remembered the man, Subject Three. Fittingly, C.I.A Officer Avery Lamica - or Subject Fifteen - was working with him.

"So, Seventeen, what did you think of that class?" Fifteen asked, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

Callen paused for a moment, a glimmer of intrigue lighting up his eyes. "I actually liked it," he said, his voice filled with enthusiasm. They'd been learning about the Revolutionary War. "The battles, the strategies, and the people who fought for freedom. It's pretty cool."

Subject Fifteen raised an eyebrow, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Really? I thought so too. I know Eleven thought it was boring though."

Continuing down the corridor, Callen caught sight of Subject Three, a rather outgoing boy. "You coming, Three?" he called out.

Subject Three glanced over at him. "Yeah, man. You ready for some action?"

Callen flashed a brief smile, his voice laced with cautious enthusiasm. "Always. Can't wait to put these moves to use," he replied, his eyes flickering with a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation.

He decided not to bring up the memory though, not knowing how to at that point or if either C.I.A officer even remembered. If they recognized him, they certainly didn't give him any indication of it.

Walking into Leah's hospital room, he was taken aback by all the machines she was still hooked up to. It didn't look as though Leah was doing any better than the last time that he'd seen her. As one of the nurses started transferring Leah onto a gurney, Callen turned to Officer Behr, struggling to hide the concern etched across his face. "The doctors give any prognosis?"

"No," Behr said with a light shake of the head. "They're saying she's showing signs of consciousness, and now we just have to wait." The man took a few steps toward the hospital room door, never taking his eyes off Leah. "The facility they recommended specializes in rehabilitation, so that's a good sign."

Just then Officer Lamica walked back in, eyeing Behr. "We're ready to roll."

Officer Behr turned on his communications device, addressing the rest of the team on the protection detail. "Elevators and hallways secure?"

Although Callen couldn't hear the response, Behr's reply indicated they got the all-clear. assurance. "Alright, let's move, quickly."

They then got to work, swiftly and cautiously, getting Leah to one of the back exits of the hospital and into a red Los Angeles Fire Department ambulance.

"Anything else I can do?" he asked as he followed Behr to the driver's side door.

"Ah, nobody will know the location of the facility," Behr replied. "She's being checked in under an alias and no visitors. We'll keep her safe."

"Alright," he conceded, a mix of emotions clouding his expression. Watching Behr hop into the driver's seat, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling of helplessness. He really wanted to do more for her. "Let me know how she's doing."

"Will do," Behr affirmed, closing the door with a decisive thud. Callen then watched as Behr started the engine and drove away before turning around and making his way to his own car. If I hadn't lied to her initially, she might not even be in that hospital bed. What was I even thinking when I did that?

Callen was halfway to the office when his cell phone started to vibrate, Fatima's name and picture flashing on the screen. "Fatima, tell me something good."

"Unfortunately, we have a problem," Fatima replied, her tone slightly dejected. "Four people, including Officer Lamica, were shot dead fifteen minutes ago."

"What?!" he exclaimed, a tone of questions flooding his brain. "Where?" That happened fast!

"In the middle of Pershing Square," Fatima said. “Really public. Shooter’s got guts.”

He sighed, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he tried to focus on the road. The protection detail got burned somehow. What did we miss? "Response?"

"Admiral Kilbride wants you to handle the crime scene," Fatima explained. "With Sam being out of town, Kensi will be joining you. Oh, and someone from the C.I.A is apparently on their way here to OSP for a briefing."

"Alright, thanks!" he said, trying to push down the guilt and anger he was feeling over the botched protection detail. "Keep me posted."

"Will do," Fatima readily agreed. "Gotta go."

Taking the nearest exit, shifting his route to Pershing Square, the road stretched ahead, but his mind was tangled in a web of unanswered questions. Why are all these former Drona subjects being killed off? Why now?

Chapter 43: Pershing Square

As Callen's car came to a halt at Pershing Square, he was met with a chaotic scene. The morning air was crisp, biting at their skin with an eerie sense of foreboding. The police cars surrounding the area blared sirens creating a cacophony of sound. The yellow police tape blocking off the perimeter and the flashing red and blue lights all added to the surreal atmosphere of the park.

His heart sank as he took in the chaotic scene. He saw the lifeless bodies of the four C.I.A officers, covered with white sheets, and it was evident that their injuries had been fatal. Callen's fists clenched, his heart pounding with a mixture of anger and frustration. The sight of the fallen officers ignited a burning determination within him.

With a sharp eye, Callen swiftly identified an LAPD Detective he recognized. He strode purposefully toward the detective, determination in every step. "What happened?" he demanded, a note of anger making its way into his voice.

Detective Rodríguez, a no-nonsense LAPD detective, sighed heavily, his frustration at the situation palpable. "That's what we're trying to figure out," he grumbled, his tone laced with annoyance. "It looks like the group got ambushed."

He gave a small nod.

"We're treating this as a targeted attack," the detective explained.

His jaw tightened slightly and then he asked the main question that had been on his mind. "How exactly did they die?"

The detective's expression darkened slightly. "They were all shot from behind except Lamica, sniper style. My guess is Lamica was first, the others ran."

Callen's eyes narrowed and he gave a curt nod. "Someone planned this carefully." His thoughts were racing. He couldn't help but wonder if he could have done something differently to prevent the tragedy.

Moments later, Kensi was hopping out of her car and making her way over to him, her expression tense. They both quickly got down to business, Callen looking over both of the bodies and Kensi talking to several LAPD officers to see if they got anything useful out of their witness interviews.

He gently pulled the white sheet back over Lamica's lifeless form with a heavy heart. His expression was determined as he spoke to Kensi.

"That's Lamica," he said matter-of-factly. "She was just at the hospital."

Kensi's eyes mirrored his sombre mood. "What about the other C.I.A officer?"

"Behr," Callen replied, his voice tight. "He's not here. Hey, LAPD get anything from the witnesses?"

Kensi shook her head, frustration evident in her voice. "No. Nothing yet."

As they stood at the grim scene, Callen couldn't help but piece together the details. "So Lamica goes down first. The rest of them try and get away in this direction."

Kensi nodded in agreement. "Well, other than Lamica, they were all shot from behind as they ran."

Callen knew they had their work cut out for them. "We're gonna have to go through every one of those office buildings to try and find the sniper's location."

"Yeah, and judging by the angle, it was probably one of the top floors," she deduced. "I'll look at the victims again. I'll do the math. I'll narrow it down."

With a sense of urgency, he activated his comms device to address Fatima. "Fatima, see if there's any traffic or security cam footage from South Olive around the time of the shooting," he requested, his tone determined. "Looking for an ambulance."

Fatima's voice crackled over the comms. "Yeah. Checking."

Amidst the chaos of the crime scene, Admiral Kilbride's voice came over their comms. "Agent Callen, there is a C.I.A Officer Cortes here who would very much like to speak to you," he relayed.

Callen glanced around, noting the presence of several C.I.A Officers wearing dark blue jackets with yellow lettering. "Well, we have a few of them here right now," he replied, his gaze fixated on the aforementioned officers.

Cortes' voice came through over the comms, his tone authoritative. "Agent Callen, I need to talk to you. FBI can handle this investigation."

Callen's reluctance was evident as he considered his options. He wasn't in the mood to go back and be interrogated by the C.I.A, and something about Officer Cortes' pushy insistence raised his suspicions.

"Callen, they think Lamica was there meeting with Drona subjects," Deeks chimed in, the man's voice filled with a touch of concern.

Callen's gut told him to hold back slightly with Cortes. After everything, he didn't fully trust Officer Cortes or the C.I.A's intentions. He had absolutely no intention of going back to OSP to be interrogated by the man. Nevertheless, he recognized the need to provide his team with a subtle nudge in the right direction.

Balancing the desire to withhold how much he knew from Cortes while not misleading his team, he chose his words carefully. "Behr and Lamica could be Drona," he replied, his voice measured. I don't recognize the other two subjects though; they were likely in a different cohort.

"Which would explain why they were put on the protection detail," the Admiral easily surmised. As was proven by Callen's denied Freedom of Information Act request, the Agency wanted to firmly throw this one in the vault.

"There has to be several of them in the Agency," he pointed out. The C.I.A trained us, they were definitely going to recruit from the pool of subjects.

Cortes, however, was determined to pursue his irritating line of questioning. "Including you, Agent Callen. You were in the C.I.A. You were also a Drona subject."

Callen's instincts kicked in, and he knew that it was high time to disengage from the conversation. "You know what?" he said, feigning interference on the call. "Y-You're breaking up. I'm gonna have to get back to you, alright?"

Ending the call, he waited for Kensi to finish what she was doing. He didn't have to wait too long before she approached him, her findings pointing to a crucial detail. "Looking at the entry and exit wounds on Lamica's body, there is no way that those gunshots came from the building. It's too steep."

Callen's mind raced as he tried to make sense of the increasingly messy situation. "So where was the shooter?"

Kensi pondered the possibilities. "I mean, all I can think of is a helicopter. They'd be one hell of a marksman."

Fatima chimed in with a solid update for them. "Alright, according to civilian air traffic control, there were eight helicopters in the vicinity at 8:16 this morning."

Deeks wasted no time in narrowing down the options. "This one. Who owns it?"

Fatima quickly retrieved the information. "Tail number is November-0418. It's owned by a corporation called Cypress Park Industries."

"There should be a point of origin," Roundtree pointed out.

Fatima provided the crucial detail. "Camarillo Airport."

"Somebody must've seen who got on that helo," the Admiral said. "Deeks..."

Deeks was ready to follow through. "Yeah, I'm about to find out."

Officer Cortes, however, remained persistent. "Last chance, Agent Callen, or I'll have the FBI escort you from the crime scene."

"Everything I know about Pembrook and Beltran is in my report," he said, not really lying if omitting details. The truth was, he didn't know much else that would actually be useful or relevant. "Besides, we're already done here. I'm headed back in."

Callen's phone buzzed, interrupting the tense situation. He retrieved it, puzzled by the unknown number that had now sent him a text message. 'Pick up, Grisha.'

It piqued his curiosity, and he couldn't resist answering the phone call. "Who is this?" he inquired cautiously.

"We need to talk," the voice on the other end said.

Callen immediately recognized the voice, his mind vividly replaying when Pembrook had hurt him with a mallet. The words 'Don't feel. Remember? Feelings cause pain.' echoed in his mind, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Fuelled by a complex blend of anger and anticipation, he replied, "There's nothing I'd like more."

"It's a conversation that's been a long, long time coming," Pembrook said, his voice laced with the same unsettling calmness he'd often heard in his youth.

Before he replied, Callen found himself recalling a conversation from about a decade prior, a reply to Diane Dunross playing in his head.

"But what do you tell yourself in the meantime?" Dunross asked.

"That I'll discover whatever I'm looking for," Callen had answered, his voice filled with a calm determination. "Maybe it's someone. Maybe it's an answer. I just tell myself I'll find it, and I get by."

As Callen finally responded to the voice on the other end of the line, his voice carried the weight of years of pent-up frustration. "I've waited my whole life for it."

Pembrook's voice softened slightly in what Callen would've taken as concern if it had been anyone else. "You're at the bottom of a deep, dark ocean, Grisha, and you have no idea which way is up."

The tension in the air didn't go unnoticed by Kensi, whose concerned gaze bore into Callen as he engaged in his private conversation. "Hey, Fatima, trace the call coming into Callen's phone now," she ordered.

The metaphor struck a chord with Callen far more strongly than he cared to admit. He knew the feeling of being adrift all too well. Right now though, he was latching onto a wave of anger, it easier to deal with. "And you're gonna show me the light, huh?" he retorted, his jaw clenched.

His sarcastic retort to Pembrook's offer of enlightenment didn't get him the reaction he expected. "I understand your anger," the man said, his tone shifting between empathy and his typical detachment.

"You cannot begin to understand it," Callen fired back, his anger palpable, thinking of everything that Pembrook did to him and the very real likelihood that Pembrook was behind the deaths of the Drona subjects.

"So what do you want to do?" Pembrook replied, something in his tone Callen couldn't quite read. Possibly resignation? "You want to hurt me? You want to kill me?"

Callen's response was laced with a complex mixture of emotions. "I think I choose both," he replied, blending his thirst for vengeance with his burning need for answers.

"Then let me give you the opportunity," Pembrook said. "But you have to listen to my instructions very carefully. No other agents. This is between you and me."

"Why would I agree to that?" he demanded, torn between his thirst for answers and his wariness of his former head teacher's motives.

"Because we both know you'd do anything to face the monster of your childhood," Pembrook replied without missing a beat.

Callen hesitated for a moment but managed to recover fairly quickly. "I think you give yourself a little too much credit."

"There's a water bottle under a bench on the south corner of Pershing Square," his former head teacher informed him. "You'll find an address on it." With that, the older man ended the phone call.

Kensi's gaze bore into him, her head tilted slightly to the side as she observed Callen with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Pembrook's here," he informed her, the weight of that evident in his voice.

"What?" Kensi replied, eyes widening slightly.

Callen didn't waste any time and shared the location where he needed to go. "South corner of the park by a coffee cart."

Both field agents began running toward the specified location, their strides filled with determination and a sense of impending confrontation.

Kensi activated her earwig. "Fatima, do you have anything on Pembrook's phone?"

Fatima's response was disheartening. "I lost the signal."

"The FBI is now on scene," Cortes informed them. "Give them the sitrep."

Callen picked up a discarded water bottle from the ground, his eyes narrowing as he spotted an address written in Sharpie: 131 Hart Street, North Hollywood. The word 'pool' was circled in red directly underneath it.

"Kens, you're not gonna find him," he stated. "He's gone. He left me an address." He turned off his earwig and eyed Kensi, a silent plea for understanding and support. "I got to do this alone." He couldn't believe he was actually agreeing to the rendezvous. Memories of his past with Pembrook flooded his mind though and he couldn't let go of the burning need for closure, for answers.

As a siren wailed in the background, they watched several FBI agents arrive at the scene, complicating matters that much more.

"FBI," she said, her voice concerned yet understanding. "Go, go. I'll stay close."

With that, Callen hurried to his vehicle, his footsteps quick and purposeful. He wanted to get to the North Hollywood address as quickly as possible. His thoughts raced, a sea of memories and emotions battling for his attention, but the burning need to confront his former head teacher drove him forward.

Chapter 44: The Reckoning

After a twenty-minute drive, Callen parked on the street directly in front of the North Hollywood house. The tires crunched over the gravel as he pulled up to the curb. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the well-manicured lawn, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees lining the street. His eyes were then drawn to a light grey van parked in the driveway.

Sitting in his car for a moment, Callen couldn't help but reflect on the memories of his past. The relentless training sessions and the ever-watchful eyes of Pembrook weighed heavily on his mind. The anger that had smouldered within him for so long threatened to ignite, and this meeting was the spark that could set it ablaze. It was a reckoning, a confrontation with a chapter of his life he'd never quite been able to close.

Callen reread the address written on the bottle, double-checking his location, and then initiated contact with Kensi through their comms. "I'm at the address," he reported, his voice carrying a mix of determination and a lingering sense of unease.

"Just watch your six," Kensi replied, her concern palpable even through the comms. She understood his need to face this alone, but that didn't make her any less uneasy about the situation. He was just relieved that she had been willing to back him up and run interference with the FBI.

With cautious determination, Callen finally exited his car, his shoes making a soft thud as they met the pavement of the quiet suburban street. He glanced at the white, one-story house with brick accents near the entrance , stealing himself, before loudly knocking on the front door several times.

"Anybody inside?" Kensi inquired over the comms.

"Yeah, nobody's answering," he replied, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the seemingly deserted house. "Just an empty van in the driveway. Look, it said 'pool' on the bottle. I'm gonna go around back."

He navigated through the sideyard, finding himself in a large backyard dominated by a sizable swimming pool. Surveying the scene, Callen caught sight of a rather conspicuous red box currently resting at the bottom of the aforementioned swimming pool. "There's a box at the bottom of the pool."

"Can you fish it out?" the Admiral inquired with a note of urgency. As if I wouldn’t think of that myself.

Callen hesitated, his eyes scanning the yard. "He's got cameras all over the place," he observed, his voice low and cautious. "I think he's watching me. He wants me to go in the water so I short out any tracking devices."

"Do not go offline, Agent Callen!" the Admiral barked, a reminder of the man’s disapproval of his long-ingrained lone-wolf tendencies.

Kensi chimed in, also clearly concerned. "Callen, I know what you want. Do not let Pembrook manipulate you into doing something stupid."

With a decisive move, Callen took out his earwig, waved it deliberately at the nearby camera, and then tossed it into the pool. He followed suit with his cell phone, ensuring that his every move was observed. Turning around, he then dived into the swimming pool, severing all contact with his team. He knew they wouldn't like it, but he had to do this. He needed to meet with Pembrook and either put an end to this chapter once and for all or finally get the answers he had desperately sought for far too long.

The pool embraced him with a chilling embrace, a reminder of the isolation he had chosen. He retrieved the box, its red hue vivid even beneath the water. With a sense of determination, he brought it back to the surface.

Emerging from the pool, gasping for air and dripping wet, Callen opened the container to reveal a single item - a house key. Its simplicity belied its significance, and he knew it held the key to unravelling his present situation.

Following the path laid out before him, Callen used the key to open the back door of the house. The sparsely furnished interior seemed to reflect the emptiness that he felt within himself. But the table in the kitchen area held a change of dry clothes, neatly arranged - a pair of blue jeans, a light-brown belt, a grey t-shirt, a black hoodie, white socks, and a pair of brown dress shoes.

The presence of these clothes was a clear message, an invitation for a meeting at a yet undisclosed location. Callen's gaze lingered on the keys to the grey van he'd seen parked outside in the driveway for a moment.

With a mixture of trepidation and determination, Callen shed his wet attire and donned the dry clothes, each garment a symbol of his readiness to face whatever awaited him on this shadowy path. Then, he stepped out of Pembrook's safe house, keys in hand, and headed toward the grey van.

Callen hopped into the driver's seat of the van and immediately heard a familiar voice coming from the back seat. "Hello, Grisha."

In the rearview mirror, Callen's gaze met Howard Pembrook's cold, calculating eyes. His former instructor's attire, all black, seemed to blend seamlessly with the shadows. The gun Pembrook held on him, steady and unwavering, glistened ominously in the dim light of the van's interior.

Callen's voice carried a mix of incredulity and frustration as he questioned the present circumstances. "This is the conversation you wanted to have?" His eyebrows furrowed as he continued to speak. "At gunpoint?"

Pembrook's stoic expression remained unchanged. "When I trained you," he remarked matter-of-factly, "I taught you the language of violence."

A defiant glint flashed in his eyes. "And I can assure you," he replied with a measured tone, "I'm still fluent."

"Toss me your gun," Pembrook demanded.

With a sense of reluctance, he hesitated for a moment before reaching for his sidearm and tossing it to the back, where Pembrook expertly caught it.

"I need you to understand what I'm about to tell you," Pembrook explained. The man started carefully waving Callen's service weapon as he spoke. "And having this seems to be the only way to get you to listen."

His smirk tinged with wry, bitter amusement crossed his lips. "You're not wrong about that," he replied, his tone laced with a mix of defiance and resignation.

"Drive the van," his former head teacher ordered, his gaze locked onto Callen's in the rearview mirror. "I'll tell you where to go."

Callen hesitated but then sighed and started the engine, driving to Van Nuys, then to the 101, to the 405, and past LAX as Pembrook periodically gave directions.

They had mostly been silent but about thirty minutes into the drive, crossing 6th and Harbour, Callen asked the question that had been bothering. "You could've killed me. You didn't. So what are we doing?"

"I'm trying to talk to you," the man explained, his voice no longer as cold and distant. "I'm trying to understand how you feel."

A flicker of irritation crossed his face, his tone firm. "No, no. We're not doing that," he retorted. "You are not my therapist. You just tell me exactly what you want."

"I want to save your life," Pembrook explained, his tone almost convincing. "I want to save Leah's life. And, hopefully, my own in the process."

Callen's response was brutally blunt. "Well, let me be really clear... I don't give a damn about your life," he shot back, the lines of hurt and resentment deeply etched into his expression. "Full stop."

Pembrook's next command sliced through the tension. "Turn right," he instructed, his focus unwavering. "There's an underground garage on the left, turn into it."

Callen pulled into the underground garage which he now suspected to be a covert C.I.A. safe site that his former head teacher had worked out of.

As the engine's rumble faded into silence, Callen turned to face Pembrook, his eyes locked onto the enigmatic man. "Now what?" he inquired, his voice laced with both impatience and slight anxiety.

Pembrook, a seasoned behavioural psychologist, regarded Callen with a keen analytical eye. "You are obsessive and consumed with anger," he said, a diagnosis delivered with the clinical precision Callen remembered from his youth.

Callen's response was defensive but resolute. "This isn't about me," he countered, a hint of vulnerability underlying his words.

Pembrook pressed further, seeking to penetrate the layers of Callen's psyche. "Do you deny it?" he probed. "Decades of searching for answers about your past, that only led to more questions. Your anger drives your obsession. You're not working through your past, you're banging your head into it, over and over."

"What do you want?" he demanded, his patience wearing thin.

Pembrook's admission was a rare glimpse into the depths of his remorse. "Understand, in no uncertain terms, I did horrible things," he confessed, his voice lightly tinged with guilt.

"We were children," Callen said softly, thinking bitterly of the innocence that had been violently stolen from them as kids.

"Yes," Pembrook acknowledged, his voice heavy with regret. "Making it that much worse. At the time, I thought... my training methods were justified for the greater good of the children and, uh, society, but... it's been clear for decades that I couldn't have been more wrong. And I am consumed with remorse every day of my life."

Callen's anger remained unrelenting, his words laced with resentment. "I don't care," he asserted, unwilling to offer forgiveness.

Pembrook, however, seemed undeterred by Callen's hostility. "I'm not asking you to," he replied calmly, drawing upon his wealth of psychological expertise. "My only solace is that you fought through much of your early childhood trauma."

Callen's frustration reached its peak as he snapped, "Stop talking about me!" His eyes bore into Pembrook's, challenging his presumptions. "You don't know me."

"Actually, I do, Grisha," Pembrook confessed. "I know everything about you. I've been watching you for thirty-five years."

His eyes widened, and a sharp intake of breath caught in his throat at that revelation. He's been watching me since I was eighteen?

"Actually, I've kept tabs on all the children who went through Drona," the older man continued. "Tried to help the ones who suffered the most."

Callen's skepticism showed in the furrow of his brow and the tenseness of his jaw. "Why don't I buy this?" he questioned.

Pembrook, with a tone of solemnity that carried the weight of his words, responded, "If we get out of this alive, as proof of my benevolent motives, I will... get you your paper file." His gaze was unwavering as he made the pledge. "In it is everything known about Grigori Callen since long before your mother's death to the present day. All my notes are in there." A sigh escaped him. "It's authentic. It's handwritten. You can date-test the ink. In it, I talk about my fear of doing harm. I talk about my own childhood. I, too, was denied emotion."

Callen's patience wore thin as he cut to the heart of the matter. "I don't care about your childhood," he stated firmly, his eyes locked onto Pembrook's, demanding answers. "But I want that file."

Pembrook acknowledged Callen's desire with a nod. "I know you do," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "You should've had it long ago. I'm sorry."

The realization of the true purpose behind their meeting began to dawn on Callen, and he couldn't help but voice his suspicion. "So that's what this is all about?" He leaned forward slightly, confronting Pembrook. "Some sort of apology?"

Pembrook sighed, the weight of his past choices evident in his demeanour. "My whole life since Drona has been an apology."

Callen swallowed hard, his voice quivering as he bared his innermost thoughts. "Understand, it has taken me years to trust any relationship. I have gone from jobs at DEA, CIA, FBI, NCIS, all to distract me from... having to face what you did." He fought to maintain at least some of his composure, not wanting to be too vulnerable. "You broke in me the most elemental aspect of being human."

Pembrook's voice, soft and remorseful, acknowledged the gravity of his actions. "I tried to kill your ability to feel," he admitted. "I know. It was a terrible thing to do. It was a terrible thing to do. I'm sorry."

The tension in the van was palpable as Callen held onto his unyielding stance. "Well, just so you know," he declared, his voice firm, "I don't accept your apology."

Pembrook's response was understanding and accepting. "Of course," he replied, recognizing the depth of the wounds he had inflicted.

As the conversation delved into the more recent events, Callen couldn't let go of his doubts. "If you care so much about these Drona subjects, why do you keep killing them?" he questioned, still not entirely convinced of Pembrook's motives.

Pembrook sighed deeply before unravelling the grim truth. "And finally, we get to the present day," he began. "I've been running a team of former Drona subjects for years. We were running black operations..."

"Tell me something I don't know," he pressed, his tone tinged with impatience.

Pembrook continued with a heavy heart, revealing the darkest facets of their shared history. "Beltran was part of my team," he explained. "He and several other operatives decided to do missions for hire."

"You tried to stop them?" he inquired, wanting to understand the extent of Pembrook's involvement in the whole mess.

"The only way to stop them was to kill them," Pembrook confessed with a small shake of the head. "You have to understand, in Ethiopia, in an effort to change the course of an election, Beltran and his team murdered a democratic candidate for hire, along with his entire family. They killed this man's children for a paycheque."

Callen's face contorted with a mixture of anger and understanding. Beltran wanted to kill Pembrook, Leah and the others because Leah's lawsuit against Pembrook would have brought his own crap to light. "That's why Beltran and his men are after you and your team," he concluded.

"Yes," Pembrook affirmed with a solemn nod.

"Drona produced men and women who are psychopathic killing machines," he said, his voice turning accusatory. What did Pembrook expect from programming kids through violence? "You did that." Callen had found a positive way to channel what he learned through Drona but even he knew that he could be absolutely ruthless. He was no saint by any means. And what about those kids from the program who didn't have someone step up to pull them from the edge like he did?

His former head teacher gave him another brisk nod. "And now they've turned on me," Pembrook acknowledged. "And you, Grisha."

Before Callen could reply, the deafening crack of a gunshot echoed through the air. He reacted swiftly, instinctively covering his head with his hands as he dropped low, just as a hail of bullets tore through the rear windshield, shattering it into a million shards.

He shot a pointed look at his former mentor. "Give me my gun." When he didn't get a fast enough response, he raised his voice. "Give me my gun!"

Without further delay, Pembrook handed Callen his firearm, the cacophony of rapid gunfire continuing unabated outside. Callen gripped his service weapon tightly, his senses on high alert. "We gotta move."

Pembrook quickly offered a suggestion, gesturing to their right with his outstretched right hand. "There's a stairwell over there," the man pointed out.

Crouched inside the battered van, the pair more or less crawled out of it before taking cover behind it to establish a plan. More than a little used to these situations after so long as an operative and wanting to assert some control over Pembrook and the mess he'd been dragged into, Callen took charge of the situation. "I'll cover you. Go to the door, and you cover me," he ordered. "On three. One. Two. Three."

Callen and Pembrook managed to slip away via the fire stairwell, though the latter got winged in the shoulder by a bullet. With Beltran and his cronies in pursuit, Callen and Pembrook ascended several floors.

"Wait," Pembrook said as they were inspecting one of the upper floors.

Callen walked over to him, his guard still up as he knew Beltran and the others were mere moments behind them.

"This is a server room," Pembrook stated, indicating the small, closet-sized space to the man's left. "It's soundproof, it's flameproof. Steel door, bolts from the inside. This would buy us some time."

"It'd also trap us," Callen pointed out, his eyes scanning the limited options.

"Not you," Pembrook said, acknowledging his own limitations. "Me. I can't run anymore. I'm bleeding. Go, Grisha."

He wasn't about to leave the man and not get the file he'd been promised. And there weren't a whole lot of other options regardless. "There's only one more floor. Running out of real estate. Okay. Let's do it."

Stepping into the server room, Pembrook locked the door behind the pair. Callen then did his best to climb up and check the vent for a potential way out. It was much too small for them to crawl through.

As expected, they didn't have to wait long before the telltale sound of someone yelling in the main office area could be heard.

Not much later, a drill could be heard whirring on the outside of the door. And it was evident they were mere moments away from breaking in. "It's close."

Pembrook got his attention as he was eyeing the door. "Grisha, wait."

He turned around to face his former head teacher.

"When Henrietta found out what I was doing, she pulled you from the program immediately," Pembrook said. "Blame me for everything. Not Hetty."

That was news to Callen but did make his memories of attending Oakwood Secondary School make more sense. So I didn't make that up. Hetty took me out of Drona and put me in Oakwood. He still felt confused though. "Why didn't she tell me?"

Pembrook didn't get the chance to answer, however, because it became clear Beltran and his cronies had just broken through the lock on the door.

Acting fast, Pembrook sat down on the floor and Callen climbed as fast as he could. As the door opened, Beltran and his people found a supine, bleeding Pembrook on the floor, serving as a sort of misdirect. "Hey, guys."

The tension hung heavy in the air as Beltran approached the wounded man, his gun drawn, a sense of urgency in his voice. "Where's Callen?"

His former head teacher, clutching his bleeding side, winced slightly in pain. "I don't know," he rasped. "We split up."

With a cold, calculating demeanour, Beltran turned to two of his little cronies, "Keep searching for him." The man then turned back to Pembrook, Beltran's voice taking on a chilling tone. "Everyone always thought you were evil." Pembrook coughed weakly. "Some kind of monster," Beltran continued, their history weighing on both men who shared a sombre chuckle. "But I knew different. That's gonna be your downfall."

"I wish that were true," Pembrook admitted, his voice laced with regret. "Because you know what? Living with what I've done is much harder than dying."

Beltran, unwavering in his determination, closed the distance between them, aiming the gun directly at Pembrook's head. "Well, then... let me put you out of your misery."

Pembrook inhaled deeply, a look of resignation on his face, preparing himself for the end. It was at that precise moment that Callen, who had been silently perched above the door, sprung into action. His shot rang out, and Beltran's lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

Another one of Beltran's operatives walked in, only to be met with Callen's swift and lethal response, falling to the ground.

Just then, Kensi and Rountree burst onto the scene, their badges held high.

"Federal agents!" Rountree and Kensi shouted in unison.

"On the ground now," Kensi ordered sternly. "Down. Get down. Down." With precision and expertise, they apprehended both men, securing the situation. Kensi then turned her attention to Callen. "You okay?"

"He needs an ambulance," he replied, his gaze locked on Pembrook. "Quickly."

Kensi swiftly raised a finger to her ear, turning on her communication device. "Fatima, we need an ambulance now."

In the aftermath of the intense confrontation at the warehouse, Callen made his way over to where Pembrook had just been seen by the EMTs. Pembrook updated him with crucial information, providing some relief.

"Leah and Officer Behr are safe," Pembrook said, his voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and tension.

"Good," Callen responded, clearly relieved that the immediate threat was over. He remained steadfast in his duty, though. "NCIS agents are going to escort you to the hospital. After you recover, you're gonna be held for questioning. I want everything you've done with Drona on record."

However, Pembrook's calm response took him by surprise. "It's not going to happen that way, Grisha," the man gently replied.

Just then Callen heard a familiar voice calling his name from behind him. Callen turned around to see Officer Behr and two other federal agents there.

Officer Behr proceeded to explain their presence. "These are agents from both DOD intelligence and NSA," he said. "We're taking Howard Pembrook into our custody."

Callen's frustration and anger grew as he approached Officer Behr. "Do you know what he's done?" he asked incredulously, unable to fathom Behr's seemingly nonchalant attitude. He wondered if Behr had repressed the memories from their alma mater. Callen recognized Officer Behr immediately but they hadn't discussed it and Callen was left questioning the other man's knowledge.

"Very much so," the other man replied calmly. "I'm also from the program."

Callen's expression shifted, a mix of surprise and confusion. Officer Behr remembered everything and seemed to accept it? The revelation left him with more questions than answers. How is he fine with what was done to us?

As Officer Behr moved to join Pembrook and the other agents who were waiting in the black SUV, Callen couldn't help but call after him. "Hold on!" he yelled.

"Walk away, Agent Callen," Officer Behr requested, his voice gentle yet firm.

Callen ran over to the vehicle and attempted to communicate with Pembrook through the window. "Why didn't Hetty say anything? Why didn't Hetty tell me I was taken..."

The black SUV started its engine and began to drive away, leaving Callen with a sense of frustration and bewilderment.

Later, back at the OSP headquarters, Callen found himself alone in Hetty's office after all the other agents left, deep in thought. The weight of the day's events pressed upon him and he felt like his head was spinning.

About an hour and a half later, his phone vibrated, startling him from his thoughts. Callen checked the incoming call, which appeared as "Unknown," and hesitated for a moment before answering with a guarded tone. "Who is this?"

Pembrook's voice came over the line. "I can't make up for what I did... but I can take away the pain of not knowing," the man offered. "Meet me outside."

Not surprised the older man knew the location of OSP's headquarters, Callen made his way outside. In the dimly lit street, Callen glanced and spotted the man, his emotions a turbulent mix of confusion, anger, and a still gnawing sense of betrayal. Pembrook's earlier remark about Hetty had left him with more questions than answers.

"Hello, Grisha," Pembrook greeted him cautiously, understanding the weight of their conversation. "Um, I didn't want to leave like that, but it-it wasn't the place."

Callen's gaze remained fixed on Pembrook, his eyes searching for any hint of sincerity. "So answer me now," he pressed. "If Hetty pulled me out of the program, why didn't she ever tell me that?"

"It's not something you'd ever see in her," Pembrook replied, his voice soft-spoken, "but Hetty was consumed with guilt for putting you in the program in the first place."

Callen's frustration boiled over. "Well, her guilt doesn't make up for it, okay?" He couldn't contain the bitterness in his voice. "I was used. She was trying to turn children into super agents." As were you.

"That wasn't her intention," the other man explained. "She put you into the program because you were brilliant and you were gifted, and she wanted you to fulfill your potential."

He couldn't help but scoff at the notion. "Her version of my potential," he argued. You two planned my life for me.

Pembrook, however, was persistent in defending Hetty. "She couldn't teach you the violin," he said. "That world was all she knew, it's all she had to offer you. It's a mistake parents often make."

Frustration and hurt bubbled up inside Callen. "She's not my parents," he said, his voice quivering with unresolved emotions. They're both long dead. And Hetty… she was the closest thing but she used me… manipulated me.

But Pembrook had one more revelation to share, one that caught Callen off guard. "You're missing the most important part," he said firmly. "Call her what you will... you mean everything to her. And you always have."

Callen, fighting back tears, felt the ground beneath him shift. "What are you saying?" he asked, a mixture of hope and confusion in his voice.

"You were as close to a son as she's ever had," Pembrook revealed, putting words to what Callen had always hoped but began to doubt.

Callen swallowed hard, his emotions a tumultuous storm. "How do you know that?" he asked, his voice vulnerable and trembling. She really did care about me? It wasn't all just some act?

"Because she told me," Pembrook replied simply, shocking Callen even more. "Even Henrietta Lange needs someone to talk to once in a while."

The weight of those words sank in, and Callen found himself at a loss for words, struggling to process the complex emotions coursing through him.

“Now, I know you think you have been alone in this world all this time, but you have been... you've been far from an orphan,” Pembrook said. “You've been loved.” There was a glint in the man’s eye that Callen didn’t know what to do with. "Deeply.”

Callen was finding it harder and harder not to cry in front of the man, so he licked his lips and didn’t speak.

Pembrook held out a thick folder to him. "So... Anyway, here's your, uh... here's your file. It's everything. Grandparents, birth, siblings, adolescence. Your life."

Callen began to flip through the documents in the folder, his eyes catching glimpses of his own history, including his Romanian birth certificate.

Certificat de Naștere 

Numele de Familie (Surname): Nikolaev

Prenumele (Given Name): Grigori Aleksandrovich

Sexul (Sex): Bărbătesc (Male)

Locul Nașterii (Birthplace): Vama Veche, Constanța

Data Nașterii (Birthdate): 11 martie 1970 (March)

Numele Tatălui (Father’s Surname): Nikolaev

Prenumele Tatălui (Given Name): Aleksandr Nikitovich

Numele Mamei (Mother’s Surname): Nikolaev

Prenumele Mamei (Given Name): Clara Georgeta

Numărul de Înregistrare (Reg. Number): 377625

Locul Înregistrării (Place of Registration): Primăria Limanu (Limanu City Hall)

Eliberat Astăzi (Issued Today): 8 aprilie 1970 (April)

Callen internally rolled his eyes at his parents’ aliases, but it also warmed him. The delicate script on the faded certificate echoed a childhood that he had long sought to piece together, the snippets capturing the first four years of his life.

Next was a document that read ‘Certificat de Botez’ straight across the top and was clearly a copy of his baptismal certificate. Both of his parents were raised Eastern Orthodox and both he and his late-sister Amy were baptized as infants as a result.

Apparently, Eastern Orthodoxy was quite popular among the Roma community back in Romania. That had been interesting to learn from his father. And, of course, the religion had been and still remained rather widespread throughout Russia as well.

As the conversation neared its end, Pembrook turned to leave but not without offering a final piece of insight. "If you don't mind taking some advice...” The man shook his head subtly as he continued. “Don’t make your life be just about the past. Let it be about the present and... and now, the future.”

He looked up in surprise. He knows about Anna and I? How did he…?

“By the way, con... gratulations on your engagement," Pembrook said earnestly. "I wish you all the happiness in the world. I really do."

Callen watched as Pembrook walked away and then wiped away a few unshed tears, hoping that the other man hadn't noticed just how perilously close to tears he'd been during their conversation.

Pembrook paused and turned back for a moment. "Oh, take a look in that file. You'll see who gave Hetty the dossier on Senior Chief Petty Officer Sam Hanna."

His surprise was written all over his face. "You?"

"I thought he'd make a great partner," his former head teacher explained. "No, that's not true. I thought he'd make a great friend."

Callen couldn't find his voice. He was torn between being grateful for Sam's friendship, aware that Sam hadn't known or been using him, and irritated at yet again being a puppet in somebody's game. The grateful side of him won out, not wanting to think of where he'd be without Sam being there all those years. He was family, a brother, and that meant a great deal to him.

As Pembrook finally walked away, Callen stood alone in the dimly lit street, teary-eyed and deep in thought. It was just a lot for him to process. Maybe it's time for another meeting with Nate?

Ultimately, he knew he'd never be fully healed, because some wounds go too deep, and even when they do close, they leave scars. However, he had managed to move forward, growing as a person. Along the way, he had discovered a type of love he'd never believed possible: romantic love. He'd also found the love of family, both with his NCIS family, like Sam and the others, and through the bond he was slowly forming with his sister and nephew.

And thanks to the conversation with Pembrook, he'd been given a crucial truth. The person he had initially doubted, the one he thought might not have truly cared, had always been there for him. Even when Hetty wasn't physically present, she had cared deeply. Despite her imperfections, as he had confided in Sam years ago, "Hetty saved me. Everything I am today is because of her." She had tried her best and genuinely cared, and perhaps, that was enough for him to let go of the anger and betrayal. To find a way to move forward with her. To start to forgive. Eventually.

With a heavy heart but a newfound sense of understanding, Callen headed to his car. There was a fiancée waiting for him at home, and a future to look forward to.

Chapter 45: New Beginnings

Two weeks had come and gone since Callen's little heart-to-heart with Pembrook and late May had painted the city with its warm hues.

The day after that conversation, Callen sat down for a therapy session with Nate, which helped more than he wanted to admit. He’d then gone back three days later. At OSP, the work pace settled into a gentle rhythm, allowing him to catch up on his backlog of paperwork and get himself a little bit more organized.

He and Anna also opened their home to Alex and Jake the evening before, the four of them playing Monopoly and digging into some pizza. The eleven-year-old was hilarious, and quite the little strategist.

However, the weight of wedding planning, coupled with Arkady's persistent meddling, threatened to overshadow their enjoyment. Callen had contemplated a call to City Hall more than once as he watched how stressed Anna was getting.

Callen and Anna sat at the kitchen table that morning after breakfast, trying yet again to figure out their wedding seating arrangements. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. Despite their best efforts, he didn't think they were getting any closer to sorting it out.

"It's your move," Anna remarked, her eyes fixed on Callen as he remained engrossed in studying the chaotic seating chart.

"I know, I know," he replied, his brow furrowed in concentration as he continued to stare down at the chart. "Don't rush me, please."

The blonde eyed him playfully. "It's been ten minutes."

"I'm thinking," he mumbled, shifting his gaze from one name to another.

"Yeah," his fiancée quipped without missing a beat. "I can smell the rubber burning."

With a hint of frustration, Callen sighed. "You know, the problem here is your father insisting on bringing two dates. I mean, who does he think he is, Hugh Hefner?"

"Hugh was his hero," she explained, her eyes twinkling with amusement, "until they banned him from the Playboy Mansion."

"Shocker," he quipped, shaking his head in mock disbelief. That really did sound like Arkady.

Mischief danced in Anna's eyes as she continued, "There was an incident..."

"I-I don't need to hear the details," Callen interrupted quickly, raising his hand as if to shield himself from the mental image forming.

"In the grotto," she continued, unable to resist one last tease.

"What-what did I just say?" he said with a groan. "I don't want to think about your father in the Playboy grotto, and... now I can't stop thinking about it. Thank you very much."

Anna leaned in slightly, toying with him. "It was their Halloween party."

"Please stop," he lightly pleaded. Why does she think I want to hear this?

She cleared her throat and shot Callen a look very reminiscent of Arkady. Sometimes she reminds me so much of her father. "Okay. So... You don't want to know what his costume was?"

"No," he replied with a mixture of curiosity and dread. His expression then shifted. "It was pretty bad, wasn't it?"

Anna couldn't help but chuckle at his reaction. "Let's just say it was peak Britney era and there were heels -" Callen threw his hands over his face in disbelief. "- and a live boa constrictor involved."

Anna's cell phone buzzed, interrupting their conversation. "Oh."

Callen lowered his hands, grateful for the distraction. I really didn't need that mental image of Arkady. "Thank you, God."

Clearing his throat, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He then started walking over to the sink to put his coffee cup in it. Meanwhile, Anna answered the incoming phone call.

"Hello?" Anna said. "Yes? Oh, no, is-is everyone all right?" Callen, who'd been about to go and grab his wristwatch from their bedroom, paused and turned toward Anna when he heard her tone change. "Okay, um... I-Is there a backup plan? No, no, o-of course. No, I understand. Thank you." She tapped the screen, ended the call, and turned toward him. "We..." She cleared her throat. " - we just lost our band."

He sighed, a heavy sense of disappointment weighing on him, and leaned against the wall beside him. Every time they made progress with the wedding planning, something unexpected came up and derailed things.

"Two of the members were involved in a car accident," Anna explained, her voice laced with concern and stress. Callen shook his head, similar emotions etched across his own face. "They are going to be okay, but... but they can't perform." She sighed, frustration mingling with disappointment. "We should've hired that wedding planner."

"No, I-I would have shot myself by now," Callen replied with a wry smile, attempting to inject a touch of humour into the situation but only partially kidding. The wedding planner, Tara Walker, really had been too much for him to handle.

Anna sighed again, reflecting on their past experiences with the wedding planner. "No, come on, she-she wasn't that bad. She's... paid to be... perky."

"Way too much perk," he replied. He could see the worry etched on her face, and he knew he had to find a way to ease her anxiety. To that end, he walked toward Anna and wrapped his arms around Anna in a comforting hug. "Look, Honey... Come on." He tried to make his voice soothing as he spoke. "Just breathe. Okay?"

Anna gave a small hum in response.

"It's all gonna work out. I promise you," he reassured her, the temptation to just book a slot to get married down at City Hall growing stronger. "It always does."

Callen finished breakfast with Anna and gave her a reassuring kiss before heading out the door. He checked his wristwatch; it was 8:40 AM sharp, and he could hear the familiar rumble of Sam's car pulling up outside. Knowing it was time to leave, Callen quickly grabbed his service weapon and badge; the twenty-minute drive to OSP beckoned.

"I've gotta go," he called out as he grabbed his go bag.

Anna nodded, a warm smile on her face. "Be careful. I'll see you tonight."

He leaned in and planted a quick peck on her cheek. "See you tonight." With that, Callen stepped out the door and climbed into Sam's car.

He was immediately greeted by his partner's customary grin. "Morning, G."

"Morning, Sam," he replied as he settled into the passenger seat. "How was the workout with your dad?"

Sam gave a little chuckle as he started to pull out of the driveway. "It was good. But remind me to never imply he's too old for something again."

Callen arched a brow. "Let me guess… you were baiting him."

"Maybe," Sam replied in a tone that suggested he really wasn't sorry about it.

As Sam deftly navigated through the morning traffic, Callen's phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. Seeing Admiral Kilbride's name on the caller I.D., he felt a mix of anticipation and curiosity. With a swift exchange of glances with Sam, he answered the call, immediately shifting into work mode.

"Morning, Admiral," Callen greeted, his tone businesslike.

"That's debatable, Agent Callen," Kilbride's gruff voice came through the phone. "I need you and Agent Hanna at the Boatshed yesterday. We've been asked to assist the ATF with tracking down missing military-grade weapons. You'll be meeting with Agent Newsome, who's already there with Agent Castor."

Callen exchanged a look with Sam, who raised an eyebrow in response.

"Understood, Admiral," he replied crisply. "We're on our way."

With that, he ended the call and relayed the information to Sam. It was only eight minutes later when Callen's phone buzzed again.

"It's Ops," he said, glancing at the screen. "They sent this to the team. ATF doesn't have any evidence, but the SAC thinks that this Agent Newsome may have gone rogue."

Sam frowned, concern etching his features. "So what's the play?"

Callen gave a light chuckle. "Kilbride wants us to keep an open mind, but stay on high alert with him."

Sam sighed, clearly not thrilled with the situation. "So, work with the guy, but don't let him shoot you in the back of the head."

"Yeah, something like that," he agreed, his tone terse. Unease settled in the pit of his stomach as he considered the precarious nature of the latest assignment.

"That's not an ideal situation," Sam muttered.

"Not at all," he readily concurred. "But if we're lucky, he doesn't know that his boss has suspicions. It'll at least give us a slight advantage."

His partner raised an eyebrow skeptically but kept his focus on the road ahead. "And if he does? Then it gives us a disadvantage."

Sam sighed, acknowledging the complexity of the situation. "Guy's been undercover this long; he knows how to project what he wants people to believe."

"Everyone has a tell," he countered optimistically.

"I don't," his partner asserted confidently.

A knowing grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "Of course, you do."

"Yeah?" his partner challenged, tilting his head slightly. "What's my tell?"

He flashed a broader grin. "That was it right there."

"I didn't do anything," Sam countered.

"You did this," Callen said. He then playfully imitated his partner's earlier gesture, a glint of humour dancing in his eyes.

Sam laughed incredulously. "I just moved my head."

Undeterred, he countered, "You tilted your head."

Sam held his ground. "No, that's a look, not a tell."

"Well, you could've looked at me without tilting your head," Callen playfully remarked.

"You need to give your head a shake," Sam fired back quickly, "because you're the one with the tell."

He laughed heartily. "Yeah, what's that?"

"You just did it," his partner claimed with a grin.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah, right."

"See?" Sam said triumphantly. "You've been doing it so long, you didn't even notice."

"I asked you a question," he argued with a smirk. "I didn't move my head."

"You giggled," Sam pointed out.

He laughed incredulously. Is that really one of my tells?

"Alright?" Sam said, very briefly glancing over at him. "And that's your tell."

"Get out of here,” he replied, continuing to go along with the bit. “I'm not a giggler.”

“Of course. Okay,” Sam cheekily said with a small nod. “You're definitely a giggler.”

"I may have chuckled at the absurdity of your suggestion," Callen said with a grin still playing on his lips, "but that is not a tell."

Sam shook his head with a teasing smirk. "Whatever you say, Giggles.”

He responded with mock exasperation. "Tilty."

Sam couldn't resist mimicking Callen's earlier giggle, adding a touch of humour to the serious situation they were about to step into.

Chapter 46: Canelés

Callen and Sam entered the Boatshed, where Agents Castor and Newsome were both already waiting for them as expected. He hoped he was right and they'd be able to get a solid read on the potentially rogue ATF agent.

"Special Agent Callen and Hanna," Castor greeted them both as they walked in. "This is Special Agent ATF Bill Newsome."

Wanting to get right down to business, Callen gestured to the photographs spread out on the main table. "Our Ops Center received the ATF report, but who are these guys?"

"Trigger-happy gunrunners with a drug issue," Newsome replied.

"That's a good combination," Sam quipped sarcastically.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Newsome said with a sigh. "I was brought in because nobody can seem to figure out who's running this organization or where they're getting their military-grade weapons inventory."

"Well, Admiral Kilbride says we're gonna be working this together," he stated.

"We need to work fast," Newsome stressed. "These guys are about to leave L.A., and they have a big stockpile of weapons somewhere here in town. They've moved it. I cannot locate it or their buyers."

"They want to offload the weapons and then disappear," Sam surmised.

"Yes," Newsome confirmed. "That's why I need to get back there ASAP."

"Okay," he said. "We'll have two of our agents provide overwatch for you."

"Me and Callen will figure out who's running this operation," Sam declared, "and which U.S. military base the weapons are being stolen from."

"Copy that," Newsome readily agreed.

He contacted Kensi and Deeks and instructed the pair to head to the Boatshed to meet with Agent Newsome and provide overwatch. He also learned that Admiral Kilbride had arrived before them, eager to meet and get a read on Agent Newsome himself.

As they left the Boatshed, he and Sam headed to OSP to discreetly reach out to some of their street contacts, hoping someone had intel on the stolen weapons.

Meanwhile, Callen had received several text messages from Anna and it was clear his fiancée was extremely stressed. Deciding that enough was enough, Callen decided to take a proactive step. He called City Hall to book an appointment for their wedding, determined not to let stress ruin things for him and Anna; Arkady's objections would have to take a backseat at this point.

"Is this really necessary?" he questioned as Sam turned into the parking lot at their destination. The brief time he had met Nina she'd left an impression and not a great one. She had a knack for making him feel… well, Nina rubbed him the wrong way. "I mean, couldn't we have met her at her store or at her roach coach?"

Rountree chuckled softly, immediately reminding Callen that his earwig was turned on and that Ops was listening in.

"If you refer to her gourmet pastry truck as a 'roach coach,'" Fatima said with a touch of amusement, "she's not gonna help us."

"Yeah, she's meeting an angel investor down there," Rountree added. "Her canelés are about to go big-time."

"Good for Nina," Sam acknowledged.

"Alright," Callen said, shifting his focus, "let's see what kind of security systems you can tap into around us." He grimaced. "Keep an eye on us, just in case."

"Yeah, of course," Fatima replied. "Will do." With that, Fatima ended the call.

He turned to his partner. "So, now..."

Sam began to speak simultaneously. "So, I was go..."

Both men paused for a moment, then Sam gestured for him to speak. "Go ahead."

"No, no, you, please," he insisted.

Sam made a vague gesture with his hand. "Please."

"Honestly, what I was gonna say will not be as important as what you were gonna say," he replied. "So, please."

Sam, mildly annoyed, eyed him. "You know I hate when you do that, right?"

"When I try to be polite?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"It's a classic Callen stalling tactic," Sam retorted.

He scoffed but then gave in, pulling his arm back in from the window and turning back towards his partner. "You think I'm doing the right thing?" I don't want either Anna or myself to regret just going to City Hall in a few years if she agrees.

"Doesn't matter what I think, or anyone else, for that matter," Sam stated. "But, yes, I think you're doing the right thing." The man paused and then spoke, a note of pride entering his voice. "It's just, it's just hard to believe, you know? G. Callen, the nomad, the lone wolf, the shadow, about to be a married man."

Callen shook his head, still somewhat in disbelief himself, considering it was something he had believed was out of reach for him for a long time. "Yup." Callen turned back to Sam. "Did you plan your wedding?"

"Are you kidding me?" his partner quipped with a light chuckle at the memory. "You knew Michelle. I was lucky she let me attend."

Callen nodded silently, not wanting to interrupt.

"That woman was nothing if not a taskmaster," Sam continued. Callen watched as a myriad of emotions flashed across his partner's face. It took a moment before Sam found his voice again. "Wow." Sam lightly shook his head. "Long time ago."

Callen nodded, understanding the weight of the memories associated with Michelle. He knew her death still hurt Sam deeply, and Callen felt so out of his depth when it came to supporting the other man. There was a certain heaviness that hung between them whenever the subject of Michelle was broached and he was never sure about what to say or do to help his partner.

Sam's cell phone started to vibrate, prompting the former Navy SEAL to retrieve it from his pocket and check it. "Oh," the man remarked.

"Everything good?" Callen asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

"Yeah, looks good," Sam said, glancing at his phone. "Remember that clinical trial I was telling you about that was showing promise, might be able to help my dad?"

"Yeah," he easily recalled. "Something popped?"

"Not yet, but they're asking for more information," Sam explained. "They said my dad could be a good candidate."

"That would be great," he said, glad that it seemed like Raymond would be accepted into the clinical trial.

"Be really great," Sam agreed, but there was an underlying tension in his voice.

Callen gave a contemplative hum, struggling to find the right words for his partner. For such a family man, Sam and his family had ended up getting a raw deal in more than a few ways. Callen really hoped that the clinical trial would pan out. The Hanna family had certainly earned a much-needed break.

A couple of minutes later, Rountree and Fatima reached out to Callen and Sam with their findings on Agent Newsome. Delving into Newsome's background, they learned that the man's daughter was enrolled at Pepperdine University - an expensive private school in Malibu. Oddly, there was no record of any financial aid listed, and she drove a late-model Range Rover. It was an extravagant lifestyle that Newsome's salary could not possibly cover. They couldn't find any reported income for Newsome's ex-wife or daughter for the past year either. It was looking more and more like the ATF agent really was dirty and working with the arms-dealing group.

Getting out of the vehicle, he and Sam walked around to the back, standing there and waiting for Nina to grace them with her presence.

He turned to his partner. "You got your speech written?"

Sam glanced over, a half-smile playing on his lips. "It's a work in progress."

"Uh-huh," he replied. "Just don't embarrass me. Or yourself."

Sam couldn't help but grin in response. "Oh."

He arched a brow. "And don't tell the Damascus story."

Sam's eyes sparkled mischievously as he replied, making Callen even more sure his suspicions were correct. "Damascus story is funny."

Callen's expression turned more serious. "Not in mixed company, it's not." He vividly remembered that night in Damascus, the memory tinged with both humour and embarrassment. He had been quite drunk and the result was not something he necessarily wanted Anna to know about.

Sam nodded in understanding, then indicated the direction of an approaching figure. "Speaking of which..."

He turned to see Nina Barnes walking up. The redheaded woman exhaled and greeted his partner with a grin. "What's up, Sam?"

"Sup?" Sam replied casually.

Nina's gaze shifted to Callen, her expression bored. "Other guy."

Callen couldn't help but respond with a touch of sarcasm, "Couldn't have done this over the phone, huh?"

"I thought you were in intelligence," Nina quipped.

"He's been under a little stress," Sam replied, clearly amused.

"Oh, right, the wedding," she said, then shared a bit of her own marital history. "You know, I was married four times, twice to the same guy. You know what I learned with each one?"

Callen couldn't resist a snarky remark. "That you're a joy to live with?"

"Don't do it," she advised. "But then, of course, I kept getting married, so I'm a devil for punishment." Nina then chuckled.

Sam redirected the conversation back to business. "You got something for us?"

Nina nodded, her tone turning more serious. "Yeah, your minions filled me in," she said. "This, uh, this group that your ATF dude is undercover with, from what I've heard, these guys are psychopaths. Make the Wagner fellas look like Boy Scouts."

Sam's brows furrowed with concern. "You got a name for the leader?"

Nina shook her head. "Not yet," she admitted. "They're, uh, very insular and run low to the ground. These guys are like ghosts. Anybody who gets too close to 'em usually disappears. The old Nacht und Nebel."

As Nina finished saying the last word, memories from an old history lesson flooded his mind, washing over Callen like a spectre from the past.

The Social Studies classroom was quite hushed as thirteen-year-old Callen took a seat toward the back of the room. Mr. Pembrook stood at the front of the classroom, clearly filling in for their usual Social Studies teacher, Ms. Hargrove.

They were already a week into their World War II unit, and the topics they'd covered ranged from significant battles to key historical figures.

Mr. Pembrook began the day's lesson by briefly summarizing the major events they had covered over the past week.

"Good morning," Mr. Pembrook began in his stern tone. "My understanding is that you've made substantial progress in your study of World War II, covering the likes of Operation Dynamo, the Battle of Britain, and the Eastern Front."

Callen, along with the other Drona subjects, listened attentively. They were well-acquainted with Mr. Pembrook's expectations for discipline and focus.

"However," Mr. Pembrook continued, his gaze sweeping over the room, "today we will delve into a lesser-known aspect of the war." The man turned to the chalkboard and began writing a phrase in bold, stern letters: "Nacht und Nebel."

Callen fixed his gaze on the words on the blackboard. The room was filled with an air of slight uncertainty as the other Drona subjects looked on with a mix of curiosity and trepidation.

Mr. Pembrook's voice was resolute and unforgiving as he explained the phrase. "Nacht und Nebel," the man repeated. Mr. Pembrook then zeroed in on Callen, pointing to the blackboard. "Seventeen, please translate this for the class."

He easily translated the phrase, glad that he at least knew the answer. Callen honestly hated being called on in class, preferring to stay under the radar as much as possible. "Nacht und Nebel is German, sir, and means 'Night and Fog' in English."

"Correct, Seventeen," the teacher said with a subtle nod. A faint, nearly imperceptible glint of approval flickered briefly in Mr. Pembrook's eyes. "It is also a directive." The man's gaze swept across the class, a pointed look that made everyone instantly sit up straight and take notice. "And one you would all do well to remember."

Callen and the other subjects promptly started jotting down the information, eager to comply with their head teacher's unspoken command.

The lesson delved deeper into the concept, Callen learning that Nacht und Nebel was a directive issued by Adolf Hitler on 7 December 1941 during World War II. The directive was designed to make political dissidents and resistance fighters simply vanish without a trace, their fates shrouded in darkness and obscurity.

Back in the present, Nina's voice took on an exceedingly serious tone. "Nobody wants to talk about 'em for fear of being disappeared."

"And you couldn't have told us that on the phone?" he inquired, a hint of irritation in his voice. The redhead had a way of rubbing him the wrong way. Not that I can blame people for being scared to snitch.

"Maybe," Nina replied with a mischievous glint in her eye. "But then I wouldn't get to see Sam." She then let out a laugh.

"But you've got nothing for us?" he clarified.

"No, not nothing," Nina countered. "Look, the chatter on the wires is that these guys float above the law because of primo intel."

"Are they working with someone in law enforcement?" Sam inquired.

"Unclear so far," Nina explained, her tone more serious. "But I've got some... soft, uh, inquiries out there, but I'll have something for you by the time your order's ready."

"What order?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"The $200 worth of assorted pastry that you're getting," Nina replied.

He eyed Sam and then turned back to Nina. "And what are we gonna do with $200 of assorted pastries?" he asked incredulously.

"Eat it, give it away, have a bake sale. I don't care, but this..." The redhead gestured dramatically to herself. "... this does not come for free anymore."

"You gonna slide in some of that red velvet?" Sam asked with a playful grin.

"Oh, yeah, yeah," Nina agreed, not even trying to be subtle about the flirting at that point. "You know what else?"

Sam hummed expectantly.

"I got some ladyfingers for you," Nina stated with a big grin.

"Nice," Sam replied happily.

He made a face at the pair's shameless flirting, and Sam and Nina shared an amused look before Sam hopped into the car and Nina headed back to her food truck.

Chapter 47: Outgunned

Hopping into the Challenger, Callen immediately used his earwig to contact Ops, the sound of his voice interrupting the quiet atmosphere in the car. "Fatima, we're gonna need to speak to a naval ordnance specialist."

"Will do," the junior agent replied.

As their comms went silent, he turned slightly to look at Sam. "You think it's odd that Newsome hasn't asked why we're backing him up instead of his own agency?"

"Maybe he had that conversation with Kilbride," his partner suggested.

Fatima's voice then crackled over their communications devices, getting the attention of both senior agents. "Hey, is it something specific you're looking for?"

"No," Callen informed her, his voice firm. "But as Nina tries to figure out who's running this operation, we'll come at it from the weapons side."

"Copy that," Fatima said.

He turned toward his partner again. "Next time we are doing this over the phone," he remarked with a wry smile. He then scoffed playfully. "Ladyfingers. Please."

His partner shot him a teasing grin. "Whatever you say, Cupcake."

Callen laughed in earnest, and the camaraderie between partners was palpable as they made their way to the Boatshed to hopefully get some more concrete answers about a few things regarding their current mission. "Thanks, Castor!" Sam greeted as they entered the Boatshed. Taking his cue, the younger agent nodded and began walking to the exit, the door closing behind him a few seconds later.

Agent Adams, a middle-aged lady with a fairly no-nonsense demeanour, sported long brunette hair. She turned her attention to Callen and Sam, her expression curious. "If you two already have some new information for me," she began, "I am going to be very impressed."

"We're still piecing things together," Sam admitted.

"We've reviewed Newsome's files and casework," he said. "It all seems very solid so far."

Adams nodded thoughtfully. "Well, like I told Admiral Kilbride, he's one of our best."

"We still have financial points of interest, though," Sam informed the ATF SAC, "which we're still looking into."

"Really?" Adams asked, taken aback. "Like what?"

"Well, it's, it's nothing concrete," he explained. "There just seems to be some extra cash floating around that we can't locate the income source of."

"Wow," Adam replied, looking a little shocked.

He then asked the question that had been bugging him since the case landed on their desk. "But, that being said, we don't completely understand what triggered your initial suspicions of Newsome."

"Which is my partner's polite way of saying we think you're holding out on us," his partner remarked.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Adams said.

"Well, then you can make it up to us by giving us everything you have," Sam said.

"Which is my partner's not-so-polite way of saying we understand that you want to protect the reputation of the agency," he said, "but if there's any other ATF personnel that may be helping Newsome, you need to let us know."

"Okay, yes, my number one concern is protecting my people and the agency, but I assure you, if I knew of such individuals, I would have told you," Adams said. "It's one of the main reasons I reached out to the Admiral."

Callen wanted to believe the woman but still couldn't get a solid enough read on the situation for his comfort. She's holding something back and something just isn't quite adding up here.

Adams' expression shifted. "Look, I hate to say this, but these guys that Newsome's tracking, they've somehow managed to stay about three steps ahead of us. And if it's not Newsome, I don't know who else it is."

"Well, it could be it's not ATF," Sam said. "Several of Newsome's operations were joint ops with local law enforcement, correct?"

"Yes," Adams confirmed.

"So it could be a dirty cop," he suggested. Sam did make a rather valid point, after all. "It could be someone from another agency."

Sam's cell phone buzzed, and he glanced at it briefly before turning to Callen. "It's the Colonel. Excuse me." The Navy SEAL then started walking to their main interrogation room, seeking a modicum of privacy.

Agent Adams appeared somewhat surprised and concerned.

Callen, maintaining his professional demeanour, offered a brief explanation. "Unrelated to this case." He wasn't going into the fact that the Colonel likely was lost somewhere downtown again or had started yet another kitchen fire with her. What Raymond was going through wasn't any of her business.

Wrapping up with the ATS Special Agent in Charge, Callen dismissed her and touched base with Sam who had to go and track his father down at a park.

Once Raymond was found and safely back at home, Callen and Sam both grabbed a large lunch, hoping that either of the agents up on Ops would find something during their ongoing background check.

Which they did, even if it wasn't of much use. Newsome's daughter had a grandfather who put together a college fund for her when she was little. There was now enough money in there to see her all throughout her schooling. She didn't even need to take out loans. Newsome's ex-wife wasn't living outrageously either. She was living a quiet life and so no one in his family was flushed with cash. At that point, there was zero evidence to indicate that Newsome was dirty.

However, that's where things got interesting. Apparently, Fatima had accessed Agent Adams' financials on a hunch - without a warrant or a subpoena, unfortunately - and found some extremely incriminating transactions.

"Newsome's boss is dirty?" Sam repeated once the Admiral was finished filling them both in on the situation.

"Yeah," Admiral Kilbride confirmed, clearly feeling exasperated. "It seems that Special Agent in Charge Kerry Adams has been on the take for years. Unfortunately, the U.S. Attorney's Office will be unable to use this evidence against Adams."

"We got an address on her?" he asked, more annoyed and surprised at the hurdle the junior agent caused than upset. He was proud of Fatima for following her gut, even if he didn't necessarily like the situation the execution put them in.

"It was sent to your phones," the Admiral informed them. "We still don't know where these weapons came from or where they're going. But if we can catch her with them, we might still have a case."

"Copy that," Sam said. "We're on it."

Pressing on the gas a little harder, Sam drove them out to the underground garage in Boyle Heights where the arms deal was expected to go down.

The car screeched to a sudden halt right by where Agent Adams had parked. He and Sam immediately pulled their service weapons and got out of the car, ready to make the arrest. They were both expecting a hairy situation, well aware that they were likely outgunned and the SAC wouldn't go down without a fight.

Sam pointed his service weapon at the target vehicle and spoke firmly. "Step out of the vehicle with your hands up."

"Right now!" Callen said, mirroring his partner's gesture. "Exit the vehicle."

They watched as Agent Adams slowly got out of her car from the passenger side. She then turned and shot the pair of NCIS agents a look of complete disbelief. "What the hell is going on?"

"Show us your hands," Sam ordered.

"Have you lost your minds?" she asked, still looking incredulous.

"Now!" he barked. He was well aware of the man getting out of the driver's side of the target vehicle who was unmistakably equipped with a hip holster and gun.

The man took a shot at them, Agent Adams immediately following suit. Bullets were whizzing through the air with menacing speed, causing sparks and glass shards to fly as they struck car windows and lights.

It forced both Callen and Sam to take cover behind the Challenger. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the tense air as the partners returned fire, their years of training and instincts kicking in. Agent Adams, once incredulous, was now fully engaged in the firefight, her expression steely and determined.

"I can't get to the long guns!" Callen yelled. He shared a look with Sam, both of them desperately wracking their brains for the best plan of action.

"Guys, you're outgunned!" Fatima said over their comms. "You two need to move."

She was right. Callen knew that they couldn't hold their current position for long. The situation had escalated into a full-blown firefight, and the odds were greatly against them. Callen took a deep breath as Agent Adams and her buddy fired off several more shots at them, trying to keep his head down and his wits sharp.

"We gotta move," Sam said.

"I don't think we can get to the long guns," Callen said. It was unfortunate as they are designed for greater accuracy and range compared to handguns. It was an edge they could really use at the moment.

A pensive expression flickered across Sam's face. "Go wide?"

"On your call," he readily agreed.

"Let's do it," his partner replied. Three heart-pounding seconds passed before Sam's urgent command, "Go!" echoed through the deafening gunfire.

Executing their plan, he and Sam both moved swiftly, each firing several shots as they advanced. Callen couldn't help but think that he shouldn't have pushed his marriage to Anna off as long as he had. He'd wanted Hetty to be a part of it and now he might not ever get the chance.

But there was no room for distractions now. Callen clenched his jaw, focusing on the task at hand. Control your emotions, Agent Callen. Pushing his emotions down, Callen concentrated on the immediate threat. Dodging bullets and returning fire, he and Sam moved with calculated precision, their shots echoing through the garage.

With each shot fired, Callen silently prayed to whatever deity was listening that he and Sam would both make it out of this scrimmage alright.

Chapter 48: You And Me

The shootout came to a halt when both the assailants were on the ground. After Callen and Sam finally left the parking garage, they met up once again with Nina Barnes who told them about an underground currency transfer system that they needed to access in order to find out who was moving the illegal firearms. After she stopped ribbing him long enough to answer questions, that is. She's relentless today.

"I don't suppose you have one of these illegal accounts, huh?" he inquired, deciding to poke the bear back. Nina's earlier remark about people loving Sam and the SEAL's car not being shot up unless Callen was around had stung more than it should have.

"Well, 'illegal' is your word, not mine," the brunette countered. "And I may or may not have one of these accounts, but it's beside the point because I have immunity."

He crossed his arms, eying Nina in mild exasperation. "You don't have immunity."

"Alright, let's call it a skosh of immunity as it relates to me helping you," she said, at least realizing Callen wasn't in the mood for her games. "Which I can help. I can get you in there, but it's up to you to get the info on the seller."

"Where do they keep that information stored?" his partner asked.

"On an air-gapped computer in a secured building," she explained matter-of-factly.

"Well, that sounds like a walk in the park," he said a touch sarcastically.

"Oh, yeah," Nina agreed. "It's gonna be super easy."

So, Nina and Sam - who went undercover as Switch - kept the crew distracted while Callen searched the premises for the "air gap computer" which if located would give him and the others access to the necessary money transfers.

Deeks, however, was chatting over their comms and was clearly growing tired of being stuck overwatch. For Kensi's part, she was a tad crabby and still feeling a bit under the weather from the recent food poisoning.

Callen, for his part, successfully located the air gap computer and patched Fatima and Roundtree in. Fatima then saw that all the missing weapons had been stolen from the Argentinian military. They then followed the money trail to a Delfina Fernández and a Maximilian Dana, an entrepreneur currently based out of Los Angeles. At which point, Rountree gave Kensi and Deeks the green light to secure the weapons.

Swiftly handling everything at the scene, they then headed back to OSP and stashed their gear, the clinks and thuds of equipment adding to the ambiance of the armoury.

After a short operational debrief, the team finally dispersed, everyone leaving for their respective homes, adrenaline and anticipation mingling in the air.

Walking into their home, Callen quickly noted that Anna and her father were yet again arguing over the seating chart for the wedding.

"I postav' eto obratno!" Anna demanded, evidently annoyed. (And put it back!)

"A vot i on," Arkady said, gesturing toward the front door. "I will ask Grisha." The man then turned toward him. "Have you seen this?" (Here he comes.)

"Only about a thousand times," he replied with a sigh, thinking of all the time that he and Anna had spent sitting and trying to finalize the chart.

"Where do you think I should sit?" Arkady asked.

"Parking lot?" he quipped, only partially kidding.

"Oh, so funny," Arkady retorted.

Anna eyed her father, trying to mediate. "Okay, look. You want to sit at a different table, you bring one date. One, not two."

"I've always been plus-two," Arkady countered.

Anna sighed in exasperation.

"You should be thankful," Arkady said with a wink. "I got you Titan."

"I'm not even gonna ask," he said, feeling quite exasperated himself.

"He's like the biggest DJ around," Arkady explained with enthusiasm.

"Yeah, and the most expensive!" his fiancée retorted.

"You cannot put a price on artistry and genius," Arkady replied with a flourish, trying to defend his rather exorbitant choice.

He shot the older man a pointed look. "Actually, I can."

"You want people to have fun at your wedding, don't you?" Arkady asked. "You want people dancing. You know, bang..." The man started dancing where he was seated, demonstrating his point.

"No," Anna said, giving him a pointed look. "Grisha doesn't dance."

"I dance," he replied, defending his dancing abilities. He was a decent dancer and she had even complimented his ballroom dancing when they'd gone undercover together at the Russian gala shortly after they first met.

Anna gave him a discreet glance, silently urging him to shut up so that they could get out of Arkady's little arrangement.

"No, but you shouldn't," Arkady replied. "I've seen you, is cry for help."

"I think you're confusing me with Sam," he retorted. Now, that man really was a horrible dancer. Callen could only equate it to dancing like a spunky kid mainlining smarties. He then turned to Anna and gave her an out. "Can I talk to you outside?"

"Gladly," his fiancée replied with a sardonic laugh.

He started walking toward the back door.

Anna started following Callen outside but then turned back towards her father. "A ty... Esli ty dotronesh'sya do chego-nibud', ya tebya porezhu, klyanus' Bogom." (And you... If you touch anything, I will cut you, I swear to God.)

He didn't hear Arkady's reply and he shut their back door behind him. The backyard was bathed in the warm glow of mid-day sun.

A moment later, the back door creaked open, and Anna stormed outside, her eyes narrowed in frustration. "I'm going to kill him," she retorted.

"Well, if you do, let me know," Callen quipped. He got where she was coming from perfectly. "That body's too big for you to move on your own."

"Not if I do it in pieces," she replied wryly.

He nodded, completely understanding his fiancée's frustration. "Mm." He studied Anna closely. "You still want to do this?"

Her expression softened. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," she replied. "Don't you?"

"Yes," he affirmed. "But not like this."

"I'm sorry," Anna said. "I'm sorry. I obviously never meant for this to become such a painful ordeal. It's just that the caterers aren't returning my calls. We may or may not have music. The venue is giving me grief about added security, and I just..."

Callen reassured her, offering a small, comforting smile. "Oh, hey. Everything's gonna be okay. None of that matters. I mean, not the caterer, not the DJ, not Arkady's plus-two. At the end of the day, this is about you and me. And I want to marry you now."

A look of confusion crossed Anna's face as she registered what he was saying. "What do you mean, 'now'?"

"I mean now now," he clarified. Callen couldn't help but momentarily wonder if he was rushing things too much. "Like right now."

Anna's eyes widened, and her laughter burst out, a mix of joy and disbelief. "Right now?" she repeated, her grin growing. Her expression then shifted as she studied him intently. "You're serious? Like today?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation.

"No," she replied with a light chuckle. Anna, usually extremely assertive and confident, looked uncertain, a rare sight. "No, look at me."

"You look beautiful," he countered sincerely. At that moment, he couldn't help but be captivated by the radiance in her eyes and the glow of her smile.

Her laughter confirmed that he'd made the right call, and for the first time in a while, he saw her smile from ear to ear. "Okay, where? When?"

"City Hall," he answered with a wide grin of his own. He had already secured a slot for them just over two hours from then. "Tonight."

"Can I wear my dress?" she inquired hopefully.

"Absolutely," he agreed. "I'll borrow a tux from work."

Her laughter filled the air once more, but then her expression shifted. "Wait, but what about Arkady and Sam and -"

"If you have to tell him, fine," he quipped. "The rest of them will be there."

"Really?" she asked.

"Really," he confirmed.

Anna pulled him into a warm bear hug, laughing once more.

"Uh, the, uh, the only thing is, I called Stacy, your Maid of Honour," he stated. "She is out of town on business." Emily and Taylor were able to come, at least, but it was far too short notice for her friends and family back in Russia or from Anna’s time in Chicago working as a homicide detective to make it.

"That's okay," she replied, pulling back from the hug and locking eyes with him. "Think I know who I'd like to stand with me." She then tilted her head slightly. "Callen, thank you." Anna then leaned in, kissing him passionately.

As their embrace lingered, the worries of the day faded, replaced by a certainty he had rarely felt in his personal life. I definitely made the right call.

Chapter 49: I Most Certainly Do

Callen's mind raced with the whirlwind of tasks ahead. He reached for his cell phone, making a series of quick, yet important calls. First, he dialled Arkady's number, quickly explaining the change of plans and hoping for his understanding. Then, he contacted Sam and the rest of the team, ensuring they would all be there for the wedding. Rosa, for her part, sounded super excited for an excuse to dress up. Typical teenage girl.

With a plan in motion, Callen dashed to OSP, his quick, silent steps through the all too familiar hallways echoing his urgency. In Wardrobe, Callen selected one of his newer tuxes with a kind of eagerness that was rare for him, a stark departure from his usual stoicism. Leaving with the attire, he couldn't help but smile, excited about starting the next chapter in his life with Anna.

Two hours seemed like an impossibly short time, but Callen was determined. With the tuxedo in hand, he drove down to the Beverly Hills Courthouse, every mile marked by mounting anticipation and a subtle undercurrent of other emotions that Callen couldn't quite put a name to at the moment.

Callen quickly changed into the borrowed tuxedo, the fabric smooth against his skin. His reflection in the mirror was a stark contrast to his earlier tactical gear. His heart raced as he adjusted his tie, striving for that perfect knot. His thoughts were racing and he couldn't help but reflect on the journey that had led him to this moment, the years of isolation, the pain, and now, the promise of a new life with Anna, the woman he loved more than he'd ever thought possible.

As he exited the dressing room and stepped into the hallway, he spotted Sam waiting nearby. The warmth of camaraderie and friendship washed over him.

Inside the elevator, the silence between Callen and Sam was comfortable, a reflection of the years they’d spent working closely together as partners. The tension of the recent events seemed to melt away in that short ride.

As Sam stepped out of the elevator, Callen paused. His partner immediately noticed that and turned to face the once-confirmed bachelor, slight concern in his eyes as he assessed his best friend. "You good?"

"I'm great," Callen replied with a confident nod. He took a deep breath, trying to hide the nerves beneath his cool exterior. "Uh..."

His partner chuckled softly, offering him a reassuring smile. Sam had known him long enough to not fall for the act, to be able to read him.

"Thank you for being my best man," he said, genuine appreciation in his voice.

"Honoured to do so," Sam replied earnestly, a proud and supportive look on his face.

"No, I... I mean it," he insisted. "I mean... You and I have been through a lot together over the years."

The former Navy SEAL hummed in agreement.

"I would not be here today if it wasn't for you," he admitted. And he didn't just mean all of the times Sam saved his life. Sam had met him where he was at all those years ago, slowly pulling him into his fold and his family, guiding and supporting him. He'd help Callen to slowly move past his Grey Man days and let people in.

"No, you would not," the other man agreed.

He eyed Sam with a small, affectionate smile. "Aren't you gonna say you wouldn't be here without me either?"

"Well, I don't want to lie to you," Sam teased, a playful glint in his eye. "Especially on your wedding day."

"Really?" he fired back, a little amused. "I'm having a heartfelt moment here, you're just not gonna let me land it, are you?"

"I'm just kidding with you," Sam assured him. "I wouldn't be here either."

His smile grew. "I love you, man."

"I know," Sam replied, a playful glint still in his eyes.

"Stop," he insisted, still amused by his partner's antics.

"I love you too," Sam said, genuinely, his tone warm and sincere.

Sam extended his hand to Callen, who clasped it firmly. He then allowed himself to be pulled into a heartfelt hug, Sam patting his back in a supportive gesture.

"Hey," he said, emotions welling up. "Thank you for always being there."

"Hey, thank you," Sam replied, his eyes reflecting the bond they shared.

The pair pulled back from the hug, both men visibly moved by the moment.

"Okay," Sam said, breaking the emotional tension. "So, uh... you done stalling?"

He nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, I think I am."

"Okay, good," Sam replied, his voice lighthearted. "Then let's get it on."

"Let's do it," he agreed with renewed determination.

Ready to begin the next chapter of his life with confidence and the support of the man who'd become his brother, he started walking toward the civil ceremony room.

Walking into the large room, Callen gave a sigh of apprehension and glanced around at all of the people already there. Roberta, Deeks, Rosa, his soon-to-be father-in-law, Admiral Kilbride, Fatima, Rountree, Kamran, and Anna's friends Emily and Taylor stood around, their anticipation evident in their excited expressions. The soft murmur of conversation was filling the air as they all awaited the start of the ceremony.

With a mix of nervousness and excitement, his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Just then the back door swung open. Anna stepped out, accompanied by Kensi, and right on their heels came the officiating judge, Judge Keisha Jackson. He couldn't take his eyes off of his bride, though. The blonde was wearing a sleek, satin-like white dress, featuring an off-shoulder sweetheart neckline, complemented by her matching, white elbow-length blazer. In her hands, she held a delicate bouquet of fresh flowers, their fragrance filling the air and adding a touch of elegance to her ensemble.

Her long blonde hair was elegantly styled in a high ponytail, and her hazel eyes were sparkling with happiness and anticipation. Simply put, she looked absolutely radiant.

"Wow," he breathed, unable to contain it.

"Wow, indeed," his partner readily agreed.

As Anna reached the altar, their gazes met in a moment of unspoken connection. Her radiant smile was met with a subtle nod and a small smile from Callen.

"Are we ready?" Judge Jackson asked.

"Now or never," Anna remarked.

"Alright, then," Judge Jackson replied happily. "Let's get ready to rumble."

The proceedings began, and Callen found himself standing across from Anna, Sam as his best man, standing proudly behind him. Kensi, for her part, was standing behind Anna as her Matron of Honour.

"Friends, family and loved ones," Judge Jackson began. "We are gathered here today to join Anastasia Maria Kolcheck and Grigori Callen in holy matrimony." She turned to Anna with a smile. "Do you, Anna, take Grisha to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward till death do you part?"

"I do," Anna readily vowed.

The judge then turned to him, still smiling. "And Grisha... do you take Anna to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health..."

He nodded. "I do."

The judge shot him an amused look. "I actually have a couple more lines."

"Sorry," he replied a little sheepishly. "My bad."

He could hear the guests laugh, and he grinned widely as Anna shook her head at him, her eyes filled with affection and amusement.

Judge Jackson, for her part, swiftly continued the proceedings. "To love and to cherish, from this day forward till death do us part?"

"Now?" he asked, his excitement showing.

"Now," the judge confirmed with a warm smile.

He dipped his head slightly. "I most certainly do."

"The rings?" the judge asked.

Kensi took the flower bouquet from Anna and handed her one of the rings while Sam handed Callen the other one.

"Grisha, you may place the ring on Anna's finger and repeat after me," the judge said. "With this ring, I thee wed."

Callen started to place the ring onto Anna's finger with a gentle precision that mirrored the care he felt for her. "With this ring, I thee wed," he repeated.

"And Anna..." the judge said, turning her attention to the bride.

Anna started putting the ring on his finger with equal precision. "With this ring, I thee wed," she declared with a warm smile.

With the ring exchange complete, Judge Jackson continued the proceedings. "Then, with the power vested in me by the State of California, I pronounce you man and wife," the judge declared with a sense of joy in her voice. "You may share your first married kiss."

The group immediately broke out into cheering and applause as Callen and Anna went in for a less-than-chaste kiss. His mind was reeling as Anna shifted from the kiss to a quick hug. We're finally married! Wow!

As the cheers subsided, Judge Jackson took a step forward, ready to escort the two newlyweds to the signing of their marriage certificate. She led the way, and Anna and Callen followed, their faces beaming with happiness. Sam and Kensi walked alongside so they could act as witnesses.

The small signing table was adorned with a bouquet of flowers, symbolizing the beauty of the union. The judge explained the process to Anna and Callen, and then they each took a pen in hand. Together, they signed the document that would legally unite them as husband and wife, the inked lines bearing both of their names: "Grigori A.N. Callen" and "Anastasia Maria Kolcheck."

Sam and Kensi watched and then as witnesses, the pair added their own signatures to his and Anna's marriage certificate.

With the marriage certificate duly signed, Judge Jackson continued the proceedings. She acknowledged the couple's intention for Anna to change her last name. The judge provided them with the necessary guidance and paperwork to formally initiate Anna's name change from Kolcheck to Callen.

They then walked around and started chatting with the guests. Including the Admiral, who had rather unexpectedly managed to weasel his way into both Callen and Anna's support systems. "Congratulations. I wish you both the very best."

He gave a curt nod, a small smile playing on his lips. "Thank you, sir."

Anna dipped her head slightly with a matching smile. "Admiral."

Resuming their rounds, he and Anna made their way over to Kensi and Deeks.

Kensi smiled. "Anna, you look stunning."

"So, do you," Anna replied. "You're glowing."

A funny expression flickered across Kensi's face at that.

"Wait, seriously?" Anna said, starting to grin. "You're pregnant."

"Not how I wanted you to find out," Kensi admitted, "but yes."

He pulled Kensi in for a hug. "That's great, Kensi. Really." He knew having a baby had been something Kensi and Deeks had wanted for a long time and was genuinely happy for the younger couple.

Rosa approached Callen a little later while Anna was talking to her friend Emily, Rosa's still strong Guatemalan accent adding a unique charm to her words. "Hey, you know, this is like the best day ever. I can't believe that you and Anna are married now. It's awesome. Congratulations."

He returned Rosa's smile appreciatively. "Thanks, Kid. Anna and I are both glad that you could make it." He then decided to broach a slightly more personal topic with the fellow foster child. "So, how do you feel about Kensi being pregnant? It's gonna be a big change for you guys."

Rosa's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh, it's amazing! I'm so happy for her and Deeks. I can't wait to be a big sister!"

Callen chuckled, enjoying the moment. "Well, I hope you're ready for some sleepless nights and baby talk."

Rosa rolled her eyes in good-natured humour. "Nothing I can't handle."

He smirked, his manner reassuring. "I don't doubt that. I think your little sister or brother is in good hands."

And, of course, Kamran couldn’t resist taking a moment to tease him and say, “It’s about time you put a ring on it, Uncle.” 

About five or so minutes later, Anna did the bouquet toss. Funnily enough, Rountree caught it. That is before the younger man quickly shoved the bouquet at Fatima who playfully called her partner a coward for the move.

Meanwhile, Callen roamed through the crowd, chatting with a couple of the guests that he had not yet spoken to.

Standing over by the doors a short while later, Sam walked up to him, a mix of pride and nostalgia in his partner's eyes. Sam then pulled him in for another hug. "I never thought I'd see this day, but I'm grateful I did."

"Yeah, you and me both," he replied.

Both men shared a laugh before they were interrupted by a visibly Arab man walking up and holding a parchment envelope out to Callen.

He took the envelope and shot the man a perplexed look. "Thanks."

The man put a hand over his heart and said, "Rebbi ikhellik."

Sam turned toward him and translated, despite knowing Callen was quite proficient in Arabic himself. "He said, 'May God protect you.'"

The young man put his hand over his heart again. "Neharek mebrouk." With that, the guy started to walk away.

Sam started to translate again. "He said..."

"Have a blessed day," he translated, confused but also not wanting to get his hopes up too much. He and Hetty had communicated like this in the past.

Sam saw Callen's expression and then ran after the Arab man to presumably try and get an explanation. "My man, come back a second."

Opening the sealed parchment letter, he started to silently read it.

'Dear Agent Callen,

Congratulations on your wedding. I am so very happy for you and Anna. I only wish I could've been there to celebrate such a glorious occasion with all of you. Most people think I never had a family of my own. But I beg to differ. I have been blessed with the greatest family one could ever have wished for. And so have you.'

He looked up and glanced around at the growing makeshift family that was standing around the room engaging in various conversations. She's right.

Just then, Sam returned. "Sorry, man. I lost him. Dude just vanished."

"Has anyone seen my husband?" Anna asked as she walked up to him.

He smiled and she pulled him in for a quick kiss.

"What's that?" Anna asked, pointing to the parchment.

"Uh, it's a letter..." He glanced over at Sam. "From Hetty."

Anna's eyes widened slightly as she eyed it. "You're kidding."

His partner gave a little hum. "Let me guess. Wedding wishes?"

Callen gave a weak chuckle. "Yeah."

Sam shook his head with a small chuckle of his own. "She's amazing."

Callen resumed reading the letter out loud. 'P.S. I have arranged for you and Anna to have my place in Mykonos for your honeymoon. Stay as long as you like.'

"I've always liked her," Anna quipped, causing Sam to laugh.

He chuckled and finished reading the letter out loud. 'I have also sent along two plane tickets for you and Sam in the event that you may have a couple days beforehand to help me with a small side project.'

"Side project?" Sam reiterated.

Callen found the two aforementioned plane tickets stashed behind the letter and then quickly scanned them both. The destination jumped out at Callen, stirring a mixture of curiosity and excitement within him. He proceeded to flip the tickets around to show his partner. "Morocco." He glanced over at his wife, a word he'd never thought he'd get to use, to see if she was okay with it. He wanted to go and help Hetty but not at the cost of his and Anna's relationship.

"I'll meet you in Greece," Anna replied with a warm smile. She then shot Sam a rather pointed look. "And you... you keep him alive." She then turned back toward Callen. "At least until the honeymoon."

"I always do," Sam assured her.

As the celebration continued, Callen felt grateful. It was a day Callen thought that he might never see, and yet here he was, married to the woman he loved, surrounded by those who meant the world to him. It had taken years but he'd found his place among his team, and the road ahead, though uncertain, was one that he was ready to travel, hand in hand with Anna and the rest of the family he'd managed to build.

First things first, though, he and Sam had a plane to Morocco to catch.

Chapter 50: Sarir Al-Aqalim

The sun had barely begun its ascent into the California sky as Callen and Sam both got situated on their flight, facing their next mission. Morocco, a country neither of them had anticipated visiting so soon after Callen's wedding, was now their destination. But now, duty called, and the request for help couldn't be ignored.

In a brief moment of stillness, Sam adjusted the strap of his black backpack, carrying the essentials for their stay in Morocco. Sam then glanced over at Callen, who had his usual army-green duffle bag at his feet and noticed the mix of uncertainty, hope, and determination swimming in the younger man's eyes.

Callen's shoulders visibly relaxed as his partner chose not to press the issue, for now at least, a weight lifting from his chest. Callen still felt a little tangled up inside at the thought of his former foster mother, how they had left things, how Hetty had helped him as a scared, angry teenager, as well as her role in him being forced into the Drona Project in the first place.

The memory of his foster mother's kindness contrasted with the secrets she had held for so long. He really wanted to believe what Pembrook had said to him though when they last met: "Call her what you will... you mean everything to her. And you always have. You were as close to a son as she's ever had."

After enduring a gruelling thirteen-hour flight, the plane touched down in Marrakesh, a city bursting with vibrant colours, its streets alive with a kaleidoscope of people - locals and tourists alike - and bustling marketplaces.

The pair then rented an old green truck off of an old contact of Callen's from his days as a C.I.A officer and made the nearly hour-long drive south to a remote village called Sarir Al-Aqalim; a place that neither of them had ever even heard of before.

As they came to a stop on the dirt road across from what appeared to be a very small marketplace, Sam gave him a puzzled look. "Why are you stopping?"

"Because according to our GPS, these are the coordinates," he explained.

Callen then quickly hopped out of the truck, leaving his gear behind, his partner swiftly following suit. As they looked around at the seemingly desolate surroundings. The air was thick with the scent of fruit and spices, and the sun's rays cast long shadows over the quaint stalls. There also didn't appear to be anything else except for fields around outside of the tiny market. "There's nothing here."

"Well, maybe that's the point," he mused as they walked toward the marketplace. The randomness of their meeting place, hidden from prying eyes, quite easily lent itself to tradecraft and clandestine meetings. "What do you think the chances are one of these guys has a cold beer?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, right. Maybe some mint tea."

"I'd rather drink mouthwash," he quipped. He did drink some tea with Hetty but it had always been his foster mother's thing. He much preferred coffee.

"Hopefully someone out here speaks French," Sam remarked after a moment.

"You speak Arabic," he reminded his partner. "We both do." Sam grew up speaking the language and Callen had been quite fluent in it since his twenties.

"No, not Moroccan Arabic," Sam clarified. "Darija is like a whole different language."

"Oh. Perfect," he said wryly. "Don't suppose you know the word for 'beer' in Darija, do you?"

The former Navy SEAL wordlessly arched a brow.

He gave a small head-shake. "I didn't think so."

The feeling of being watched sent a mild shiver down his spine, but he didn't waver. Callen approached a small, weathered table where a petite woman with chestnut hair sat. She was wearing a pink headscarf, a green long-sleeve shirt, and a grey blazer. "Hetty?" he questioned.

The woman turned around toward them, her hazel eyes locking onto Callen's, and he was stunned by just who it was sitting there. Nell Jones, with a relaxed yet determined expression, replied, "Hello, boys. Welcome to Morocco."

"Nell," Sam said as the young woman got to her feet. "What are you doing here?"

Nell gave a small sigh. "Well... let's just say Hetty got herself into a bit of a pickle, so I'm here to get her out," she briefly explained, her voice carrying an undertone of concern. "Unfortunately, it's proven a little more challenging than I anticipated, so I figured my team could use some help."

"You have a team?" he asked curiously. "Don't tell me Beale's here with you."

"No, sadly, he is giving a TED Talk in Singapore," she replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips as she spoke of her boyfriend's continuing success.

"Of course he is," Sam quipped with a chuckle.

Just then a familiar voice chimed in from off to the side. "She brought in the A-Team."

"Oh," Sam said as recognition dawned. "Sabatino."

"What's up, Big Man?" Sabatino asked, his manner exuding his usual mix of cockiness and charisma.

Nell laughed softly at the guys' antics.

He turned and offered a warm smile to his long-time psychologist, who had just joined the motley crew as well. "Nate."

"Callen. Sam," Nate greeted warmly. "Good to see you. Damn glad you're here."

"We're not," Sam commented with a wry grin. His partner then indicated Sabatino with his right hand. "This guy's bad luck personified."

"Oh, you can't hide your love for me," Sabatino instantly fired back, a playful twinkle in his eyes. "Come on, bring it in."

"No," Sam retorted playfully.

"Eh, I think you miss me," Sabatino insisted, wearing his usual smirk.

The former Navy SEAL chuckled.

"How long you been here, Nate?" He inquired. It hadn't been that long since they had last spoken. Whatever was going on had happened fast.

"Long enough to know we're up to our asses in alligators," Nate said, his voice lightly tinged with concern. "No real lead on Hetty's whereabouts, and the intelligence is... spotty at best."

"And on top of that, we don't know who we can and cannot trust," Nell said, her brow furrowing slightly with worry. "Which is why I asked you both here."

"Under somewhat false pretences," he pointed out. He still wasn't exactly sure how he felt about her little bit of misdirection with the letter.

"Eh, subterfuge is the foundation of good espionage," Nell replied smoothly, evidently confident in the decision she'd made.

"You're getting more like Hetty every day," Sam remarked with a note of fondness in his voice.

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment, thank you," Nell replied, her smile revealing a touch of pride at the Navy SEAL's comparison.

Sam gave a little hum and then indicated the rather young man standing on the other side of Sabatino. "Who's the kid?"

"Willis, sir," the young man replied, his posture respectful yet cautious.

"No. No. What did I say?" Sabatino said, shaking his head in mock frustration. "You're still the new guy. That's your name. Until you prove otherwise, you're just 'New Guy.'"

"I'm the new guy," the young man conceded.

Callen chuckled at Sabatino's light teasing. It was a familiar dance with the man, one that he knew all too well. Some things never change.

Nate fixed his gaze on Callen, an eyebrow arching in mild amusement as Nate asked him, "Is he always like this?"

"He's usually worse," he remarked, a hint of affection for Sabatino's antics seeping into his voice.

"See?" Sabatino commented, grinning widely. "They both missed me. It's sweet."

Sam gave a little hum before turning back to Nell. "I guess you have a plan?"

"I'm working on it," the younger woman replied with a cheeky grin. "So... what do you say, gentlemen? You ready for your next adventure?"

He and Sam exchanged a knowing glance, a silent conversation born of years of trust and partnership. He then grinned and said, "Yeah. This is gonna be fun."

Nell and Sam both hummed, their expressions both conveying the mix of anticipation and apprehension they were all feeling for what lay ahead. But Callen knew one thing for certain; this was one group he was glad to have at his six. They would handle it, whatever may come. Together.

Chapter 51: Toeing the Line

Under the relentless Moroccan sun, Callen and the others were growing increasingly frustrated with their investigation into Hetty's whereabouts. The bustling Marrakesh bazaar offered little information, and time was slipping away. They desperately needed a lead. Callen, for his part, had hoped that after a day and a half in the country, they'd have at least made some sort of tangible progress. In any case, Sabatino finally had eased up on the jokes about Callen having married a much younger woman.

Nell looked around at the group and suggested, "Why don't we all go grab some lunch and take a short break while Callen and Sam keep on working their contacts? We can meet them back here."

With a consensus, he and Sam gave their food orders to Nell and the rest of the team headed off in search of food, leaving him and Sam on their own.

As they pondered their next move, Callen's burner phone vibrated. He pulled the cell out and glanced at the screen. There was a new message from an encrypted number that he didn't recognize at first.

Finally recognizing the sender as Walter Forster, a C.I.A. officer he had worked with in Russia in '97 and again in Caracas two years later, Callen's heart skipped a beat. This message was unexpected but could potentially be a crucial breakthrough for them.

Sam noticed the change in his expression. "What is it?"

"Sam," he began, "Do you remember Wally? We met with him during our investigation into that U.S Consulate attack in Tunisia back in 2015."

Sam's brow furrowed in thought momentarily, and then a flicker of recognition started to show in his partner's eyes. "Yeah, G, I remember him."

"Well, I just got this from him." He then read the message out loud to the former Navy SEAL: 'Butch, we need to talk. Info on Lady H's situation. Urgent. - W.F.' He eyed Sam. "We need to reach out to him and find out what he knows."

Sam nodded, sharing his urgency. "Yeah, we've gotta move on this right away."

Callen quickly responded to Walter's text message, confirming their readiness to speak with him. Walter was back stateside, so a physical rendezvous wasn't possible. Walter was, however, able to direct them to a local courier by the name of Faheem Khalid, a key contact within Al-Qaeda who may have information about Hetty.

Sam and Callen exchanged a significant glance, realizing the gravity of the situation. This was no ordinary mission, and the stakes were higher than ever.

As the team all returned with lunch, he and Sam immediately briefed the group about the text message and the resulting phone call with Walter. Nell, Nate, Sabatino, and Isaiah Willis exchanged glances, processing the information.

Nate was the first to break the silence, the man's voice filled with a mix of curiosity and surprise. "Walter Forster? I've heard of him, but what's his connection to Hetty? Why's he reaching out now?"

Callen paused, his brow furrowing as he thought about how much to say. "Wally and I go way back, we can trust him. This Khalid guy must have some valuable information or he wouldn't have reached out. We can't afford to ignore it."

Nell, always the voice of reason, added, "This is the best lead we've managed to get so far. I think Callen's right. We have to act on this."

Sabatino chimed in, his tone skeptical, "But we can't ignore the fact that this could be a trap. We have to proceed cautiously."

Nate tilted his head slightly. "What's the plan then, Callen? How do you want to handle this?"

"First, we should gather every piece of intel we have on Khalid," he stated. "The man's background, connections, affiliations – anything that might help us once we're able to speak with him."

Willis, eager to prove himself, looked at him. "I can get started on that."

He dipped his head slightly, appreciating Willis's enthusiasm. "Good." Callen glanced around at the group. "Secondly, we need to ensure a secure location for the meet with Khalid. Nell, work on the logistics and make sure it's as discreet and safe as possible. I don't want to take any chances."

"Copy that," Nell replied with a small nod.

"We should also make contingencies," Sam pointed out. "We have no clue what we're gonna be walking into. We have to be ready for anything."

As they solidified their plan, the team finished their lunch and split up to tackle their respective tasks. Callen and Sam returned to their investigation in the Marrakesh bazaar, while the rest of the team worked diligently to ensure that everything was in place for the apprehension of Khalid.

Hours passed before they finally managed to locate the courier. He was a young man with green eyes, sitting in a well lit tea house in Guéliz, right downtown. It was place that Khalid was known to frequent regularly. The team approached the younger man cautiously, their training guiding their every step.

As they surrounded Khalid, the tension in the room was palpable. Callen took the lead, the rest of the team hanging back slightly. He discreetly placed the barrel of his gun on the small of the younger man's back. He then spoke in a low but serious voice, "Ta'al ma'ee bissukun." (Come with me, quietly.)

"Man anta?" Khalid asked. (Who are you?)

"Ana lastu huna li'ajeeb 'ala as'ilaatik," he replied without missing a beat. "Faqat ta'al ma'ee, wa lan nu'dhiruk." He'd deliberately worded the last sentence that way to make it clear that he wasn't there alone. (I'm not here to answer your questions. Just come with me, and we won't hurt you.)

"Wakha," the guy grumbled. "Hasanan." (Fine.)

Khalid stood up and Callen escorted the courier towards the exit, the rest of the team sticking close to him in case things went sideways.

In a coordinated fashion, the team led Khalid to a secluded warehouse that Nell had found earlier. The place was far from prying eyes and ears, perfect for their private interrogation. As they entered the dimly lit building, Sam made sure to double-check for any potential threats.

His partner got Sabatino's attention. "I need you take Willis and secure the perimeter."

Sabatino nodded and clasped Willis on the shoulder. "Come on, New Guy."

Once inside, they secured Khalid to a sturdy metal chair with restraints. Nate and Nell quickly set up a makeshift interrogation table while Willis and Sabatino continued to stand stood guard at the entrance, in case they received some unexpected visitors during their little chat with the courier.

Callen's thoughts raced as he felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. This wasn't just another mission; this was about saving Hetty.

Once done, Sam joined Callen, no doubt wanting to make sure that he didn't cross the line. Nate and Nell both took a similar stance on either side of Callen.

Callen decided to go with a fairly direct approach. He pulled out a photograph of Hetty and showed it to the courier, asking firmly, "Do you know this woman?"

Khalid's eyes fixed on the image, and a flicker of recognition passed across the young man's face. Khalid quickly buried it, however, shaking his head. "No."

"You know, I really don't believe you," he said, eyeing the younger man. "We know you've been working for Al-Qaeda, and we know you're a courier for them. And we also know you have information about where this woman is being held."

"I have no idea who she is or what you're talking about," Khalid said more confidently this time. "This is all simply a big misunderstanding."

"Somehow I doubt that," Sam stated. His partner, ever the Navy SEAL, generally kept his emotions in check, but Callen couldn't help but notice the subtle clenching of Sam's jaw, a telltale sign of his growing impatience. "Where is she?"

The courier glanced off to the side, evidently trying to ignore the former Navy SEAL.

Callen exchanged a glance with Sam, a silent signal that they needed to crank up the pressure somewhat. "We have strong evidence linking you to Al-Qaeda," he said with a cold, unwavering tone. "You might want to reconsider your story."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Khalid coolly insisted. "But if they do have her, she's probably getting what she deserves."

Khalid's refusal to cooperate grated on his patience, and deep down, he felt an internal struggle brewing. He knew his Drona training, the ruthless lessons instilled in him by Pembrook, was a last resort. He'd promised himself that he'd never go down that dark path after seeing what it did to Katya and Beltran but the stakes here were too high. Hetty's life hung in the balance. He needed to compartmentalize his emotions, closing off the compassionate part of him for now.

So, with a steely resolve, Callen opted to let go of his usual restraint and tap into the ruthless side of himself that he'd spent years suppressing. Pushing aside the irritation building in him, he drew upon the mantra that had been drilled into him with relentless persistence: "Don't feel." With a steely resolve, Callen shut off his emotions, letting his focus become razor-sharp.

The change in his demeanour was subtle but unmistakable. His eyes, once filled with frustration, turned cold and calculating. He squared his shoulders and leaned in close to the courier, his voice laced with warning. "Khalid, I'm gonna make this very clear. If you're holding back anything that can help us save her, you're making a big mistake. I have ways to make you talk, and trust me, you don't want to find out what those are. I learned from the best."

As Callen referenced his training under Pembrook, Sam and Nate exchanged a subtle yet concerned look, aware of the darker side of their colleague's training growing up and that Callen was, unsurprisingly, taking this mission quite personally. Nell, for her part, looked a touch more confused than anything.

Khalid's eyes widened, and he swallowed hard, clearly unnerved by Callen's tone. "I'm just a courier. I don't know anything about this woman you're talking about."

Sam shot him a quick, pointed look. "G."

He merely arched a brow at Khalid. "Start talking."

Nate, playing a psychological angle, chimed in. "Faheem, we understand you might be scared, but the more you cooperate, the safer you'll be in the long run."

The last of Khalid's defiant facade wavered as the realization of the seriousness of his predicament sank in. The man stammered, "I've heard whispers... I mean, I may have overheard something about a woman they're holding."

He crossed his arms, still eying Khalid. "Go on."

"I don't know where she is exactly," the younger man claimed. "But Hassan Al-Banna, he's the one who has that lady friend of yours."

"Hassan Al-Banna?" Callen repeated, raising an eyebrow as he did. "Good. Now, tell us everything you know about him."

Khalid's hesitant gaze darted between Callen, Sam, and the rest of the team, fear and uncertainty still palpable in Khalid's eyes. The man swallowed hard, as if he was trying to muster the courage to speak. Finally, with a deep breath, the young courier started to divulge what little information he knew.

"Hassan Al-Banna," Khalid said, his voice a little shaky. "He is a high-ranking member of Al-Qaeda. Some say he's even closer to Mohammad Al-Kalmira than most."

"One of the leaders?" he clarified, already knowing the answer to that.

"Yes," Khalid confirmed. "And he's the one who's been holding the woman you're here looking for."

"Any idea where they're keeping her?" he inquired.

The courier nodded, hesitating as he chose his words carefully. "I've heard whispers, nothing concrete, you see. But there's a compound, in the Atlas Mountains. It's very remote and heavily guarded. They call it 'Dar Al-Jabal' or the -"

"The Mountain House," Sam easily translated.

Khalid gave a curt nod of the head.

"What's the compound for?" he asked, wanting to get as much information as possible about what they were going to be walking into.

"It's a place where they hold high-value hostages," Khalid proceeded to explain, "and I have heard the woman's name mentioned."

His expression hardened as he absorbed the information. Dar Al-Jabal. That's where they're keeping Hetty. He turned to Khalid with a mixture of relief and determination. "Alright, tell us everything you know about their operations, any vulnerabilities, and who might be there with Hetty."

"The compound is well-fortified," Khalid said. "With guards armed to the teeth. Getting in will be almost impossible without being detected."

Nell, who'd been discreetly taking notes, spoke up. "We'll need any intel that you have on their security, entry points, and any schedules."

Khalid nodded, still visibly anxious but cooperating. "I've heard they change guards' shifts at dawn and dusk. There's a hidden entrance through the rocky terrain on the east side of the compound, but you'd need a guide to find it."

"Who's the guide?" his partner questioned.

Khalid hesitated momentarily once more before deciding to continue. "There's a man, a local guide. They call him 'Rashid.' He has worked for them before, leading outsiders through the mountains."

"And where can we find him?" he pressed. Rashid could be a useful way in.

The courier sighed. "I'll give you his address."

Callen nodded curtly and Nell quickly handed the young man a pen and paper. Khalid then started scribbling down the requested information.

As they wrapped up their interrogation of Khalid, they began strategizing and planning their next moves. They now had a lead, a location, and a potential guide, but he was admittedly concerned about what lay ahead. The op felt like a high-stakes gamble. He knew they had a tough road ahead, but Callen was determined to do whatever it took to ensure a safe extraction for Hetty and bring her home.

Chapter 52: Dar Al-Jabal

Under the cover of night, Callen, Sam, and the rest of the team gathered outside the address provided by Khalid. The building, a worn-down apartment complex, looked as though it had seen better days. With their gear concealed beneath dark jackets, they approached cautiously, fully aware that Rashid Ramzi could be the key to them successfully saving Hetty and getting out with all of their lives.

Nell had done her homework, uncovering a lot of Rashid's background and potential vulnerabilities. She shared her findings with the team, her voice steady. "Rashid's got a family. He's married with two young kids. He is fiercely protective of them. He really doesn't fit the profile of your usual jihadist or opportunist. I went through his financials as well… There's nothing in there either to suggest that Rashid's willingly working with the insurgents or would want to."

"They might be leveraging him," Sabatino suggested. "Using his family."

"Not a bad plan," Sam said with a small sigh. "It's effective."

Armed with this knowledge, the team had a better idea of how to approach the courier and, with any luck, get Rashid to willingly help them.

He took point as they reached the apartment door listed in Khalid's notes. Sam stood close by, ready to provide backup if needed. Nell and Nate maintained a little distance to ensure they didn't spook Rashid. Willis and Sabatino remained nearby in their truck, ready to move in case things went south.

Callen knocked firmly on the door and exchanged a quick, meaningful look with Sam. They couldn't afford to be too trusting, not in their line of work.

Moments later, the apartment door creaked open just a crack, revealing a pair of wary brown eyes. "What do you want?" Rashid's voice carried a hint of suspicion.

He spoke confidently but calmly. "Nahnu bihajah ila musa'adatik, Rashid. We were told you can guide us through the Atlas Mountains." (We need your help, Rashid.)

The local guide stared at them for a few tense seconds, taking in their appearance and gauging their intentions. "Who are you?" he asked, keeping the door partially closed.

"We're U.S. federal agents," Sam explained. "We're here on official business, Rashid. We're looking for someone, and we believe you can help us."

The guide hesitated, then, perhaps sensing their determination and the weight of the situation, opened the door a bit wider. "Come in, but be quick and quiet. I don't want the neighbours asking questions."

The team entered Rashid's apartment, and as they sat down to talk, Sam jumped in to further explain why they were there.

Rashid listened attentively, the man's expression a mix of curiosity, fear, and disbelief. "Dar Al-Jabal is a dangerous place," the guide cautioned. "I've heard stories, and I've seen men who went in never come back out."

"We're all aware of the risks," Callen remarked. "But we need your help." They could go and navigate the mountains themselves but that added a lot more risk than having a skilled guide familiar with the area accompanying them.

The guide hesitated, his gaze shifting from the team to the fading photograph of his family up on the wall. Rashid sighed, the weight of a difficult decision pressing on him. "I have a family to think about. If I help you and things go wrong..."

Sam chimed in, understanding the man's predicament. "Rashid, we'll do everything we can to keep you and your family safe."

"I need a guarantee," Rashid said. "Protection if things go south."

Nate then chimed in. "We can arrange safe passage for you and your family to a safer location once this mission is over."

Rashid nodded, now more willing to cooperate. "Very well, I'll help you. But I will need some time to prepare."

Sam nodded. "Take the time you need, Rashid. We appreciate your help."

He gave a curt nod of his own. "Thank you."

With the arrangements made, the team left Rashid's apartment, glad that things had gone about as well as they could've asked for.

As they regrouped in their vehicle, the gravity of their mission weighed on their minds. They were well aware their plan would need to be meticulous and executed flawlessly if they were going to infiltrate Dar Al-Jabal without being detected.

With Rashid guiding them, the team made the journey into the Atlas Mountains. Their vehicles wound through the narrow, winding mountain roads, their headlights dimmed to aid in avoiding detection.

Nell, in the back of Sabatino's truck, was monitoring several communication channels, helping ensure they remained off the grid and unseen by any hostile forces.

As they approached Dar Al-Jabal, Nell chimed in with an update. "We've got a possible patrol ahead, guys. Keep your eyes open."

Callen and Sam, riding in the lead vehicle, mentally prepared for a confrontation. They would prefer to reach Hetty without alerting the enemy to their presence but weren't getting their hopes up. Callen's grip on his weapon was tight, and his senses were on high alert as he scanned the area.

The patrol came into view, a group of armed guards blocking the path. Sam nodded at him, and they both silently grabbed their guns. Without a sound, he and Sam swiftly incapacitated the men and went on their way, making sure to leave no trace of their presence or what direction they were going. Meanwhile, Nate was doing his best to keep Rashid focused and calm.

With Rashid's guidance, they reached a concealed area near the compound. They then went on foot toward their chosen entrance. He, Sam, and the rest of the team moved quietly through the terrain, approaching the compound's perimeter.

The team then split into two smaller groups: one to infiltrate the building where they suspected Hetty was being held, and the other - consisting of Sabatino, Rashid, and Willis - to provide backup and secure the team's exit.

As Callen, Sam, Nell and Nate entered the building, their hearts raced. They knew this was the moment when things were going to finally come to a head. They needed to go in, extract Hetty swiftly, and then get to their exfil point.

With precision and teamwork, they started clearing the building. Walking into one of the last rooms on the second floor, Callen stopped in his tracks. There she was, Hetty Lange, battered but very much alive.

A mixture of relief and other emotions washed over him, but Callen pushed them down and forced himself to focus as he rushed to her side; now wasn't the time. With Hetty safely found, he knew they had to make a hasty exit.

Hetty, despite her calm demeanour, bore the marks of their ordeal, her once-pristine suit now dusty and her expression a mix of exhaustion and relief. "Mr. Callen," she said with a faint smile.

"Hetty," he replied with a curt small nod. Callen then reached for a concealed gun and handed it to her. "I brought a little insurance policy."

Hetty nodded with a small smile, appreciating the foresight. "It'll do."

Pressing a finger to the earwig in his right ear, Callen spoke over the team's comms. "We've got Hetty. Let's get out of here."

"Copy that," Willis replied with a note of relief.

Sam eyed the rest of the group. "Stick close and watch out for any surprises."

The team gathered around Hetty, forming a protective shield as they started making their way out of the building.

As they moved down a dimly lit hallway, the sound of gunfire erupted. Bullets whizzed past them, forcing the group to take cover behind some of the larger furniture pieces. Sabatino and Willis quickly rushed in to provide backup, allowing Callen to take cover and reload his magazine.

"Incoming from the left!" Sam shouted as he returned fire.

His heart raced, adrenaline pumping through his veins. "Nell, cover our rear!"

Nell nodded, keeping her gun trained on the hallway they had just passed through. Nate took another one out, and Sam and Nell both needed to reload their weapons.

In the chaos, a bullet grazed Sabatino's calf, causing the man to grit his teeth in pain.

"You good, Sabatino?" Nate asked as he took out his second magazine.

Despite the pain in his leg, the man refused to be sidelined. With a determined look in his eyes, Sabatino resumed his position, intending to keep on fighting alongside them. "Yeah. We'll deal with this scratch once we're clear."

"Good man," Sam remarked, quickly changing his position.

Callen nodded, returning fire and successfully taking two more of the insurgents out. Nate took another one out, Nell and Sam both needing to reload their weapons. Hetty fired off a few more shots as well, taking down two other insurgents.

Finally, the situation fell somewhat under control. As the team carefully retreated from the building, they remained vigilant, their senses still on high alert.

Hetty then shared some crucial insights into the layout of the compound, giving them an easier route to their chosen exfil point. "We'll take a right turn up ahead," she said. "That way should provide more cover. Allow us to better go undetected."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Nate quipped, immediately following Hetty.

As they approached the exfil point, Rashid was there, waiting for them, eager to make a quick exit. Sabatino, now nursing his injured leg slightly, winced as he climbed into the larger truck. "Let's get out of here, people."

Everyone jumped into the vehicles they'd driven in with, Callen however insisted that Hetty was with him and Sam. He didn't want to let her out of his sight just yet. With Hetty safely in the vehicle, the team moved quickly.

They could hear the distant shouts of the remaining hostile forces as they drove off, but took advantage of their limited window of opportunity to escape.

As their vehicles sped away from the compound, the tension finally began to dissipate somewhat. They had Hetty back, and they were all on their way to safety. However, Callen wasn't able to relax until they were at the safe house.

As they settled into the safe house, Hetty, with her usual calm demeanour, started to stitch up Sabatino's GSW on his calf. The guy winced slightly but didn't complain; he knew they were just lucky to make it out of there in one piece.

Callen, for his part, had began pacing restlessly. The constant checking of his weapon, and the way he couldn't quite hold Hetty's gaze now that they were out of the line of fire spoke volumes about how he was feeling.

Nate and Sam chatted about him briefly, which didn't go unnoticed by him, and then the former Navy SEAL took the opportunity to corner him in the kitchen when he was grabbing a glass of water. "Okay, Partner, real talk."

Callen rolled his eyes. Whenever Sam said that it usually meant an uncomfortable chat was ahead for him. "What's up, Big Guy?"

"What's going on with you?" Sam asked. "You're wound up tight, G, and that's saying something. Not to mention the Khalid interrogation."

He arched a brow. Really? I didn't even touch the guy. He's seen me do worse. "We needed the information, Sam."

"True," Sam agreed. "But we both know the line you were walking, G." Sam then tilted his head towards the living room. "Are you going to hash things out with her? Or are you going to just ignore it like always?"

He met his partner's gaze and sighed. "I want to, but I think I should wait until we're back in L.A." He gestured to the room they were in. "Look where we are. I just wanna make sure we're all safe before I have that conversation." Plus, I really don't want an audience for it. It's way too personal.

Sam nodded in understanding, respecting his decision. "Alright, man, I get it. For now, let's focus on getting everyone home in one piece."

"Yeah," he readily agreed.

"What time's the flight out again?" Sam asked.

After cashing in a favour, Callen secured everyone seats on a military transport out of Camp Ramram to RAF Lakenheath, where they would then fly directly to Los Angeles Air Force Base. "Wheels up at 0530.” Callen glanced down at his wrist watch. “So, we've got just over three hours."

With any luck, they would make it back to U.S. soil without any further incident. Callen hoped. In the meantime, however, he kept some distance from Hetty, trying to decide just what he was going to say to her when the time came. To figure out how he even felt.

Chapter 53: Fragments Of Trust

The vehicle maneuvered through the familiar streets of Los Angeles, heading towards Hetty's Hollywood residence, Dovecote. The car'e atmosphere was heavy, the silence punctuated only by the sound of the radio quietly playing in the background. Callen's hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He felt a lump forming in his throat, making it hard to swallow, as he wrestled with the words he needed to say. He wanted the discussion out of the way so he could join his new bride in Greece and enjoy their honeymoon without it hanging over them. How do I even begin this conversation? "Hetty... we need to talk," he finally stated, his voice a mix of determination and barely concealed vulnerability.

Hetty, who'd been gazing out the passenger side window, turned toward him, her eyes filled with a mix of apprehension and understanding. "I know, Mr. Callen. And, frankly, I dare say it's high time we did."

He nodded, his gaze steady. "I need to understand, Hetty. I need to understand your role in all of this. Why'd you put me in Drona?"

Hetty's expression softened, her eyes filled with regret and empathy, a stark contrast to the woman he'd known since his teens. She'd never seemed to be somebody who regretted much as he'd told Admiral Kilbride once. "Callen, I had you tested for Drona to try and help you. You were brilliant and gifted. I thought it would give you the skills to make your own way in life. But I failed to realize the full extent of the program and the damage it would cause. That's on me and for that I'm sorry."

His voice carried a mix of disappointment and frustration. "You wanted to indoctrinate children, Hetty. That's not something I can easily overlook or understand, especially considering Ahkos."

Meeting his gaze, Hetty spoke, her voice laced with remorse. "You're absolutely right, Callen. It was an egregious mistake on my part, and I regret my involvement in it. I should've been more vigilant in recognizing the flaws and potential for harm. Should have looked into the training methods sooner. I assure you, I didn't realize it would end up being anything like Akhos's situation. I never wanted that."

He paused, taking a moment to collect his thoughts somewhat. Callen then eyed her. "I don't blame you for the torture, Hetty. I know you pulled me from the program as soon as you learned about it. But it's hard for me to reconcile the fact you wanted to turn kids into super agents in the first place."

Hetty met his gaze and nodded. "You're right, Callen. At the time, I believed it was just providing gifted children with language skills, a general knowledge of science, engineering, self-defence, intelligence gathering, and the finer arts of… seduction. When I learned that it included more intense and unacceptable forms of training, I realized I made a horrible mistake in having you tested for the program.”

Callen swallowed. That’s an understatement. 

”I immediately pulled you from the program,” she continued. “And, it took me a year, but I got the whole program shut down.” Hetty sighed. “I should have questioned the morality of the project more rigorously from the start, and I failed to do so. I can only offer you my sincerest apologies."

He shook his head, his voice tinged with a mix of weariness and determination. "It's gonna take time, Hetty. Time for me to process everything and come to terms with it all. You let him turn me into a weapon. But I want you to know that I still value your guidance and support from over the years. You were there for me through a lot and I'm grateful for that. But I need time to sort through some things."

Hetty reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Callen, I fully understand forgiveness is not something that can be easily granted or expected. Take all of the time you need, Dear."

He nodded, focusing his gaze on the road as they fell back to their heavy silence. He needed a moment to collect himself before he continued this.

As they arrived at Hetty's Hollywood house, Callen wasn't sure how to feel. The road ahead remained uncertain, but with Hetty's presence and acknowledgement of her mistakes, he felt a glimmer of hope. Together, the pair walked towards the house, readying themselves to continue the rather difficult conversation.

The front door of Dovecote finally swung open, revealing the familiar interior that had been a sanctuary for Callen over the years. He stepped inside the house, the weight of the past washing over him. Hetty followed closely behind him, her own eyes filled with a mixture of apprehension and determination.

He noticed the framed photograph on the wall, a picture of a much younger Callen and Hetty, smiling together, a stark contrast to the tension currently in the room.

They settled into the living room, the soft lamplight casting a soft, warm glow across the room, a silence so thick you could almost hear the ticking of the nearby antique clock. It reminded him of the many evenings they had sat there reading some novel together. He then turned to his foster mother, his voice calm yet filled with curiosity. "Hetty, what made you finally look into Pembrook's methods?"

"You," she replied simply. "You were such a sweet kid when you were younger and it wasn't like you to start fights. You wouldn't even stand up for yourself when getting bullied by the neighbourhood kids. And then you…. changed. You became very angry and distant." Hetty sighed. "And then you ran away."

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "And?"

"I figured it was due to abuse by your foster parents," she continued. "Which some of it was. But, when I pulled your medical records to try and ensure your removal from that so-called home, hoping we could coax you off of the streets, I knew. Many of the injuries were… not unlike those of prisoners of war."

He nodded and then tilted his head slightly. "When did you first notice I had repressed memories?" he asked. "When did you know something was off?"

Hetty's gaze softened, her expression tinged with a mixture of sadness and concern. She sighed and then answered. "I began to notice signs something was amiss from the moment I took you in after you escaped from Southgate. It was quickly clear you didn't recognize me. Then I referenced the program and you didn't catch it. That was the first indication you'd repressed your memories."

Callen's brows furrowed as he absorbed her words, a mix of confusion, irritation, and realization dawning on his face. "So, all this time... you knew that I had lost a part of my past? Why didn't you confront me about it then?"

"I made a judgment call, Callen. I believed that bringing it up at that moment would only add to the confusion and distress you were already experiencing," she explained. "I wanted to give you some time to heal, to find stability in your new life. But, yes, I have always been aware of the gaps in your memory."

He leaned back slightly, his mind racing with a flood of emotions and memories hitting him like shards of glass, cutting through the fog of his past. He couldn't understand why he'd never questioned the empty spaces in his memory. "Why didn't I notice it myself? Why didn't I question all of the blanks?"

Hetty reached out and took his hand, her voice gentle and reassuring. "Callen, it's not uncommon for individuals who've experienced trauma to block out painful memories as a coping mechanism. Your mind was protecting you." She sighed. "I thought I was doing you a favour by letting it, by allowing you to forget the trauma."

"It's like I always knew though," he explained. "Little thing, little snippets… I couldn't explain why I couldn't settle down, was running, and reacted a certain way, but… Drona was somehow always there even if I couldn't put a name to it." He swallowed. "Some things have made a lot more sense since I started getting my memory back."

Hetty nodded in understanding. "Well, it's not uncommon for repressed memories to manifest in subtle ways. That's your subconscious mind trying to nudge you, to reintegrate the memories eventually. And it's understandable that as your memories have resurfaced, things have begun to click into place."

He let out a sigh, leaning forward and playing with his face. "I still don't know where we go from here. The memories that have come back, they're fragments of a life that feels much more like a nightmare. And you played a part in that.”

Hetty nodded subtly as she listened to his words. She leaned forward slightly and said, "Callen, I wish I could erase the pain I've caused you, but I can't. I know words alone won't mend the damage, but I'm here for you. I'll support you in any way I can."

He nodded curtly, appreciating the sincerity. "You're right, words can't erase it, Hetty. And I don't know that I ever will fully forgive you for your involvement in Drona."

She swallowed almost imperceptibly, but he had known her long enough to be able to read Hetty quite easily when it wasn't him she was playing.

"But I can't deny how important you are to me," he continued. "We've been through a lot together, you and I. I'd like to find a way for us to move forward, eventually, even if I'm not sure what I want that to look like right now."

Hetty squeezed his hand gently, a faint smile touching her lips as she felt a glimmer of hope. "I understand, Callen. And I won't push you. We'll take things at your pace."

As they sat in a more comfortable silence than the drive in, the weight of their shared history still hung in the air, but it felt a little less burdensome than before. Callen knew that the road ahead would be challenging, but he wanted to walk it.

He didn't want to walk away from the woman who'd taken him in as a teen, saved him from himself in many ways, and gave him a place to finally call home. It was just hard to reconcile that woman with the cold operative she had been.

With honesty, understanding, and time, Callen was hopeful they'd be able to repair the seriously fractured relationship, even if they never got back to where they were before he broke into the archive and learned the truth.

Chapter 54: Fresh Start, Old Challenges

Hetty's property in Mykonos had provided Callen and Anna with two weeks of escape from their often hectic lives. The place, located right off the Old Port, was not only a very charming waterfront villa with a private pool but was also conveniently located within easy walking distance of a myriad of charming restaurants and cocktail bars.

They'd explored the winding streets, tried several local dishes, and soaked up some of the island's history, from the iconic windmills to ancient ruins. Their favourite activity had been hiking along the rugged coastline, Anna taking quite a number of photos of the views of the Aegean Sea on their walks and from the terrace.

Of course, they also made the most of the private pool, indulging in countless morning and hot afternoon swims, as well as savouring a few cold beers while either engrossed in a book or casually chatting as they lounged by the poolside.

But now, back in Los Angeles as of the day before, the sun's rays pierced the curtains of his and Anna's bedroom. He woke up and his heart warmed as he gazed at his wife, peacefully asleep beside him. He couldn't help but smile.

"Time to get up," he whispered, gently pressing a kiss to the blonde's forehead.

His wife started to stir, opening her eyes with a sleepy smile. "Utro," she mumbled, her voice still a little groggy. (Mornin'.)

"Dobroye utro," he replied, echoing the blonde's sleepy remark. "First day back at work today. Feels kinda weird and normal, all at the same time." (Good morning.)

Anna laughed, untangling herself from their sheets. "Well, it's not like you take a lot of time off, Grisha. Go. I'll put coffee on while you shower."

Callen quickly showered and dressed, his thoughts racing with the return to his daily routine. As he walked into their kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and he found his wife busy at the counter.

"Thanks for the coffee," Callen said as his wife started pouring him a cup.

Anna smiled as she handed him the steaming mug of coffee. "You're welcome. I'll join at the table you in a minute." She poured her own coffee and then took a seat across from him. "Work called me in for a new case too, so I guess it's back to work for the both of us."

He raised an eyebrow in question. "You happy about that?" Callen inquired, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee mug.

"Yeah," she replied with a warm smile. "Our time in Mykonos was amazing, but I think I'm ready to dive back into cases."

"I know what you mean," he agreed. During the final days of their honeymoon, an itch for action started to gnaw at Callen, an all-too familiar restlessness creeping in despite the fact that he'd been enjoying himself.

As the couple both shovelled down a quick breakfast, the familiarity of their morning routine reassured him that, despite the brief respite, they were both well-prepared to tackle whatever came their way at work.

As they finished eating, Callen stood up and started clearing the dirty dishes. Once he finished, he checked the time. "Alright, time to face the real world."

"Yeah," his wife replied with a small nod. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "And don't forget," she reminded him, "we're on for dinner with Alex and Jake tonight. They're coming over around six."

He smiled, appreciating the reminder. "I won't forget. I'm looking forward to it. Just remember, no work talk at dinner. Alex is a little… squeamish."

"Yeah," she readily agreed having heard about his half-sister's reaction to him having a cane for a bit after he got shot in the calf a few years back during an op.

After grabbing their respective gear, he and Anna shared a quick kiss before they both hopped into their respective cars and went their separate ways.

Callen parked his car in the motorpool, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before heading into OSP and rejoining his team.

He finally made his way to the familiar entrance, taking a deep breath before stepping inside. The large building hummed with activity, agents and various support personnel shuffling papers, tapping on keyboards, and engaging in hushed discussions. As Callen approached his team's bullpen, despite being engrossed in their various tasks, they all quickly noticed his arrival.

Sam, who was sitting at his desk, looked up from whatever report he was working on and smiled. "G, welcome back!"

Fatima, who was sitting on the couch with Rountree, swiftly jumped in. "Hey, Callen, glad to have you back."

Deeks, pouring himself a cup of coffee at the counter just behind Sam, chimed in. "So, you two lovebirds finally decided to rejoin the real world, huh?"

Kensi, sitting down at her desk, rolled her eyes playfully. "Hey, give the man a break, Deeks. He deserved that vacation."

"True," Rountree quipped with a smirk. "Honestly, I'm kinda amazed he grasped the whole 'vacation' and 'time off' thing."

He chuckled, a spark of warmth in his eyes. He'd missed the team while he was away, despite really enjoying his time alone with his wife. "Yeah, well, I guess even old dogs can learn new tricks, Rountree."

"Apparently," Rountree replied with a huge grin.

"You just didn't want me to drag you out of here by your ears," Sam stated teasingly, referring to when Callen kept on stalling the morning he was supposed to leave for his first vacation with Anna down to Laguna Beach.

He rolled his eyes playfully. "Yeah, yeah."

Hetty, as always, seemed to just materialize out of thin air, her usual stoic expression softened by a small smile when she saw him. It was Hetty's second day back, Admiral Kilbride having returned to Washington to deal with some business there.

"Mr. Callen, welcome back," Hetty said. "I trust your time in Mykonos was pleasant?"

He nodded, making a conscious effort to be completely cordial. He did want to work through the strains in their current relationship, after all. "It was, Hetty. And thanks again for lending us the place."

Hetty, with a subtle tilt of her head, offered a warm smile as she replied. "It's nothing, Mr. Callen. Now, if you'll follow me, we have work."

Ascending the familiar staircase, they followed Hetty up to the Operations Centre. He then took his usual spot in the middle of the room, facing the large screen that was currently displaying the details of a sailor that he didn't recognize courtesy of Fatima.

"Chief Petty Officer Logan Dobson was murdered and found dead at his residence in Oxnard last night," Hetty explained matter-of-factly, beginning her briefing. "Initial reports suggest a possible break-in. However, there may be more to this than meets the eye. He was one of the Navy's top engineers."

Kensi leaned in, her investigative instincts already kicking in. "Any leads on who might have had a motive to target him, Hetty?"

Hetty nodded curtly. "Dobson was working on a highly classified project, something to do with advanced propulsion systems for the Navy. Project Poseidon. As such, this murder may be connected to the technology he was handling."

"So, we're looking at a potential breach of national security," Sam interjected.

"If there's naval tech involved, there must be some disgruntled insiders," Deeks said, "or external parties who want a piece of the action."

"Indeed," Hetty agreed. "Murder and possible espionage. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that SecNav wants a swift and discreet resolution." She fixed her gaze on him. "Mr. Callen, I want both you and Mr. Hanna to handle the military angle. Retrace Dobson's recent activities and interactions as well as any possible threats related to the project the Chief Petty Officer was working on." She then shifted her attention to Deeks and continued. "Messrs. Deeks and Rountree, I want you to take the crime scene." Hetty then turned toward the female agents. "Agents Blye and Namazi will work from up here in Ops."

He nodded, not surprised at the small shift in pairings. The first thing that an agent did if she got pregnant was take herself out of the field. Kensi, understandably, wasn't going to be doing fieldwork with them for some time. "On it, Hetty."

Deeks and Rountree both nodded in quick acknowledgment, with the elder field agent swiftly adding, "Understood."

Kensi and Fatima gave small nods of acknowledgment as well.

Sam turned to Callen with a knowing look, referring to their earlier conversation about his honeymoon. "Guess your Mykonos getaway is over, Partner."

He quirked an eyebrow and flashed his partner a sly grin. "You know, Big Guy, solving crimes is just as relaxing as a beachside cocktail. Let's get to it."

As the team dispersed to carry out the respective tasks, he couldn't help but enjoy the sense of familiarity and purpose that being back on the job brought.

Chapter 55: NAWCWD Point Mugu

Exiting the Operations Centre, Callen and Sam headed through the small tunnel, which led out the front door and to the carport. They then hopped into Sam's car and began the drive out to Naval Base Ventura County, contemplating their next steps. With any luck, the Chief Petty Officer's co-workers would be able to fill in some of the blanks for them.

After about an hour's drive, the imposing gates of the Naval base loomed ahead. The base's security personnel greeted them and requested both of their credentials. Sam handed over his I.D., while Callen did the same, flashing his own NCIS shield. After the brief security check, they were finally granted access and pulled onto the Navy base.

The base buzzed with activity as uniformed personnel went about their duties. They parked the Hellcat and made their way to the building housing the Naval Air Warfare Centre Weapons Division. Inside, the atmosphere was tense, and the sailors seemed on edge, still grappling with the shock of Dobson's death.

With his usual air of quiet intensity, Callen began closing the distance between himself and the huddled sailors that he suspected were members of Dobson's unit. He flashed his badge once more, the sunlight briefly catching its gleam, and said, "I'm SSA Grisha Callen, and this is Special Agent Sam Hanna. NCIS. We're looking into Chief Petty Officer Dobson's death."

"Got a minute for some questions?" Sam inquired.

The sailors exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of sadness and suspicion. After a moment, one of them, a young brunette, stepped forward. She cleared her throat before introducing herself, "I'm Petty Officer Emily Williams, and this is Seaman Dylan Harris," she said, gesturing to the man beside her. The woman then gestured to the woman on her left, saying, "This is Petty Officer Rachel Martínez. We all served under Chief Dobson. We'll do our best to answer any questions."

He and Sam nodded appreciatively. "Thank you. First things first, I want you to know how sorry we are for your loss," the former SEAL added sympathetically.

"Chief Dobson was dedicated and well-liked," Williams continued. "His death's hitting everyone here hard. We all wanna know what happened."

He grabbed a notepad and pen from his back pocket, ready to jot down any new intel they got. "Did Dobson exhibit any unusual behaviour recently? Or given any indication that he was worried or concerned about something?"

Williams took a deep breath before replying, "Chief Dobson was always super involved, but the past few weeks, he seemed a bit more distant, like something was bothering him. He'd disappear for a while during his off-hours, and he never used to do that."

"We thought he might have had some personal issues going on," Martínez explained, "but he never really talked about it. Not to me, anyway."

Harris nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and about a week ago, I overheard him talking on the phone in a hushed tone, saying he'd 'handle it.' But he quickly ended the call when he saw me."

"Do you have any idea who Dobson might have been talking to?" he asked.

"Or what he might have been looking into?" his partner added.

He noted down their responses, his handwriting hurried yet precise. "Thank you, that's helpful. Now, can you think of anybody who may have wanted to harm Chief Dobson? Any potential enemies or -

" - any disputes within the unit?" Sam finished.

Harris hesitated for a moment before speaking, "Dobson was always professional, but he did have some clashes with a civilian contractor named Leonard Gibson. They had a few heated arguments about some project management issues."

"And there was also some tension between Chief Dobson and Lieutenant James Fuller over the allocation of resources for a project," Martínez chimed in. "Those two didn't exactly see eye to eye."

"Project Poseidon?" he inquired, more for confirmation than anything.

"Yeah," Martínez confirmed.

"The disputes never got physical or anything like that, but -" Harris added.

He nodded, swiftly noting down the names that had been mentioned. "We'll look into those angles. Is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all?"

All three of the sailors shook their heads. So, wrapping up their interviews, he and Sam thanked the group for their cooperation and assured them that they would do everything they could to find out what happened to Chief Petty Officer Dobson. With several new leads to follow up on, he and Sam left the building and walked back to the Challenger.

"What's your gut saying, G?" Sam asked as they hopped into the car.

He arched a brow. "It's saying we need to track down whoever Dobson was talking to on that phone call," he mused aloud. "'I'll handle it' – that sounds like he was worried about something." With a swift, decisive motion, he reached for his cell. "I'm gonna have Kens and Fatima trace that call."

As Callen dialled Kensi's phone number, Sam began driving them out of the Navy base and back towards Los Angeles.

"Kens, we need to trace a phone call Chief Petty Officer Dobson made about a week ago," he explained, jumping in to quickly relay the information he had just received from the sailors.

"Copy that," Kensi said. "We just got the warrant back for Dobson's phone records, so Fatima and I will start digging through those. I'll let you know what we find."

"Thanks, Kens!" he said, ending the call. He then dialled Deeks' number, aware Deeks and Rountree had gone to the crime scene in Oxnard. "Hey, Deeks," he said as soon as the call connected. "You get anything from Dobson's?"

"Hey, Callen!" Deeks said, his voice slightly muffled by the background noise. "We've been going over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb. Dobson was clearly attacked here, given the signs of a struggle in the house, but so far, no murder weapon's been found."

"Any witnesses or security footage?" he pressed.

Deeks sighed, his voice carrying a hint of frustration. "Not much luck there so far. The neighbours didn't hear or see anything unusual. As for security footage, I requested it from a nearby camera, but that's gonna take some time."

He nodded, absorbing the information. "Alright, keep me posted." Hanging up, Callen turned to his partner and gave Sam a sit-rep.

He then talked to Agents Roundtree and Castor over their comms, having them locate Leonard Gibson, the civilian contractor, and Lieutenant James Fuller, and bring them to the Boatshed for questioning. Both men had potential motives, and they needed to gather as much information as possible.

The civilian contractor was quickly ushered into the interrogation room upstairs, while the lieutenant was put in the primary interrogation room on the main floor.

He flashed his partner a wry smile. "So, Big Guy, you want what's behind door number one or door number two?"

"I'll take door number one," Sam stated, a determined look in his eyes.

"Alright," he agreed with a small nod. "I guess I've got the contractor."

Proceeding with their separate interrogations, Callen took a seat across the table from Leonard Gibson, his demeanour calm but assertive as he placed a folder down on the large table. "So, Mr. Gibson," he said, "I understand you had some disagreements with Chief Petty Officer Dobson about work management. Specifically for Project Poseidon. Care to elaborate on that?"

Gibson shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze avoiding Callen's. "Yeah, we didn't see eye to eye on some things. Dobson was always so by the book, and I believed we needed some flexibility to get the job done efficiently."

Callen leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms, and observed Gibson who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the screech of the metal chair legs scraping against the wooden floor breaking the silence. "Did any of these disagreements ever escalate, turn physical?"

Gibson hesitated a beat before replying, "No. We had our disagreements, but nothing physical. It was all about the project."

He continued to press for details about their disputes and any potential motives that the man might have had. Meanwhile, his partner was doing the same in the primary interrogation room downstairs with Lieutenant Fuller, focusing on Fuller's contentious relationship with the Chief Petty Officer.

After a thorough interrogation with Leonard Gibson, Callen found no direct evidence linking him to Chief Petty Officer Dobson's murder. In the primary interrogation room, Sam faced similar challenges in his conversation with Lieutenant Fuller.

With no immediate breakthrough in the interrogations, the team regrouped back at the office to discuss their findings. Kensi and Fatima had made progress on tracking the phone call Dobson had made a week ago. They had identified the recipient as a Rebecca Navarro, a woman without any known criminal connections.

The lack of clear suspects left the OSP team at a standstill. They needed more evidence to tie anyone to Dobson's murder.

Meanwhile, Hetty was noticeably busy in her office across the way. On top of several business calls, she was coordinating with Peter Campbell's team at one point, having a chalk talk regarding one of their operations as well as meeting with Tina Larsen's team to discuss one of their missions.

Hetty remained professional, but Callen couldn't help but sense that his former foster mother was deliberately giving him some space, given everything that had happened. While a part of him did appreciate the room to settle back into work, a larger part of him wished for Hetty to step in and offer her usual assistance.

Sam leaned back in his chair slightly and sighed. "We're hitting a dead end here. We need something more concrete to go on."

Callen nodded, sharing the sentiment. He wasn't happy that they were at a standstill either. "You know, Rebecca Navarro could still be the key to this." He took a sip of his coffee. "We need to speak with her."

"We're still waiting on the results of the forensic report for Dobson's house too," Deeks added. "If anything juicy pops, that could point us in the right direction."

"And we still can't rule out the possibility of an unknown third party being involved," he pointed out. "Dobson's phone call to Rebecca might not be the sole motive for his murder."

"So basically, we've still got squat!" Rountree drawled as he took a seat down on the couch. "Even the security footage hasn't given us anything."

He sighed, feeling more than a little frustrated. "Yeah."

Frustration hung in the air as the team mulled over their limited progress. They were stuck in a maze of unanswered questions, with no clear path forward. Callen leaned forward, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup as he pondered their next move.

"We need to find Navarro and dig deeper into that phone call," Sam said, breaking the silence. "It might be our best lead right now."

Callen's firm and determined expression was evident as he gave a curt nod and swiftly pulled up their secured messenger application, IntelliChat, on his work computer. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he typed. 'Kens, I need you and Fatima to try and track Rebecca Navarro down again. See if her phone's been turned back on.'

Kensi's response from up in Ops came swiftly. 'On it. And Fatima's talking to the sister Mia to see if she knows where Rebecca is.'

With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, his mind racing as he glanced up at the clock on the wall. He was well aware that every moment that passed was a potential missed opportunity. In the world of NCIS, delays could mean the difference between solving a case and watching it go cold. And waiting was something that Callen had never been particularly fond of, regardless. The uncertainty was frustrating.

Chapter 56: The Beachside Encounter

As the clock at the Office of Special Projects kept ticking, Callen's team was growing restless, waiting for any updates on Rebecca Navarro's whereabouts. Finally, Fatima and Kensi joined them in the bullpen.

"Got a lead on Navarro's location," Fatima informed them, pulling the information up on the smaller screen in the bullpen. "She was spotted at a local café in Venice Beach, about an hour ago."

He leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Good work." Callen turned to the field agents. "Sam, you and I will head to the café. Deeks and Roundtree, keep digging for any connections between Navarro and Dobson."

With a shared look, Sam and Callen both grabbed their gear and headed out the door, hoping the lead would actually pan out.

Under the Southern California sun, both men quickly made their way to Venice Beach. They parked a block away from the café where Navarro was last spotted to keep a low profile, opting to approach the bustling boardwalk on foot.

As he and Sam entered the café, a young server behind the counter greeted them with a friendly smile. "Hi, what can I get you gentlemen today?"

He flashed his badge subtly and spoke in a calm, authoritative tone. "We're looking for someone who was here about an hour ago. A woman named Rebecca Navarro. Do you remember her?"

The server furrowed her brow, taking a moment to recall. "Yeah, I remember her. She was sitting over there," the server remarked as she pointed to a corner table. "But she left a couple of minutes ago."

"Did she say where she was going?" Sam questioned.

The server shook her head. "Sorry, I don't know."

"Thanks," he said, slipping a business card with his contact information to the server. "If you remember anything else or if she comes back, please give us a call."

They left the café and decided to check out the surrounding area in case Navarro was still nearby. Venice Beach was always busy, and tracking someone down in the crowd would be a challenge. Callen knew the area quite well though; he and Sam both did.

While he and Sam were canvassing the area, his partner tapped him on the shoulder. "G, I think I see Navarro," the former Navy SEAL whispered, subtly indicating a lady who appeared to match the I.D photo they'd seen back at OSP.

Callen followed his partner's gaze, spotting Navarro in the distance. Without drawing attention to themselves, they discreetly tailed her through the boardwalk's colourful chaos. The woman eventually entered a nearby surf shop, and he and Sam followed her inside, careful not to alert her.

Within the shop, Navarro moved deliberately through the diverse selection, seemingly engrossed in the items. He and Sam kept a safe distance, observing her behaviour.

After a while, she stopped in front of a particular surfboard with the image of a wave curling to perfection. Her expression turned contemplative as she studied it, her eyes tracing the details of the artwork.

Callen decided it was time to approach her. He stepped forward, ensuring his tone was calm and non-threatening. "Rebecca Navarro?"

Startled, she turned to face him, her eyes wide with surprise. "Who are you?"

"We're with NCIS," Sam chimed in, flashing his badge. "We need to talk to you about Chief Petty Officer Dobson."

The young woman glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers. "Alright, but can we go somewhere more private?"

He and Sam exchanged a glance. They needed to hear what Navarro had to say, but they also wanted to ensure her safety. "We'll take you to the Boatshed. It's a secure location nearby," he assured her.

Navarro hesitated but eventually agreed and followed him and Sam as they discreetly left the surf shop. They led her through the lively boardwalk, navigating the busy crowd to where the Hellcat was parked.

Upon arriving at the Boatshed, they guided Navarro inside. The young woman seemed rather anxious but also determined to share whatever she knew. Callen noticed the conflicted emotions playing across her face.

He offered her a glass of water and a seat in the main area, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. As she sat down, she looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and resolve.

"So, what was that phone call with Dobson about?" he inquired, trying to keep his tone gentle and encouraging.

"I... I was the one who called Logan," she explained. "Logan, he was a good friend of my late brother's and I needed his help." Navarro shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she continued to talk. "You see, he confronted my abusive ex who'd come by my work that day. Apparently, the guy's currently on leave."

"He's military?" Sam surmised based on the young woman's wording. Callen, for his part, had the exact same train of thought.

The young woman nodded. "He's a Marine, currently based out of Twentynine Palms. Corporal Jason Dawson. He's been stalking and harassing me for months, and I didn't know who else to go to."

He and Sam exchanged a meaningful look, understanding the gravity of the situation. The mention of the abusive ex being in the military didn't sit well with either of them. Callen, for his part, was feeling a familiar and unwelcome surge of anger building up inside him. His own painful memories of the abuse he experienced in various foster and group homes resurfaced, causing his jaw to clench.

Despite the anger simmering beneath the surface, he knew that he needed to remain focused on the task at hand. He couldn't let his personal history cloud his judgment. "What happened after he confronted Jason?" Callen asked.

Tears started welling up in Navarro's eyes as she recounted the painful events. "Logan told him to leave, that if he came near me again, he'd contact NCIS."

"I'm guessing Jason didn't handle the prospect of being reported to our F-and-S-V Unit all that well," he surmised, his voice laced with empathy. He understood the courage it took for her to share this painful story. They never do.

"He was furious," Navarro admitted, her voice shaking slightly. "They got into a heated argument right there at work. But Jason eventually stormed off."

His partner arched a brow. "And this was yesterday morning?" he inquired, wanting to firmly establish the timeline.

Navarro wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and nodded. "Yeah."

Navarro wiped her eyes and nodded. "Yeah."

As Navarro continued sharing her account of the events, he and Sam listened intently, both empathizing with her situation and processing the urgency of her predicament.

"Do you happen to know where Jason is staying or where he might go?" he inquired, trying to gather as much information as possible.

"Or who he might contact?" Sam added.

Navarro bit her lip, but answered. "I think he mentioned something about staying with an old buddy of his, Chris"

"Do you know the address?" Sam wondered.

Navarro quickly wrote down the address for them, shoving the piece of paper Sam gave her back across to table towards them.

"We'll head there and see if we can locate Jason," he said, figuring this was the best shot they've had this entire case.

"In the meantime," Sam added, "you'll stay here at the Boatshed."

After reassuring Navarro that she was in good hands, he and Sam swiftly made their way out of the Boatshed. Address in hand, they headed to Santa Monica to hopefully wrap up the case once and for all.

The drive to the address Navarro had provided was a tense one. He and Sam knew they were racing against time to find Jason Dawson before he could cause any more harm. As they approached the residence, they parked a short distance away to avoid alerting anyone who might be watching.

The neighbourhood was quiet, with a sense of foreboding hanging in the air. He and Sam approached the house cautiously, keeping their weapons concealed but ready. With practiced precision, Sam knocked on the door as Callen kept watch.

A dishevelled man, with unkempt hair and a weary look, answered the front door with a slightly puzzled look on his face. "Can I help you?"

"We're looking for Jason Dawson," he stated, flashing his badge. "Is he here?"

The young man's eyes widened slightly before he nodded, "Uh, yeah, he's inside. But what's this about?"

"We're with NCIS," he explained, his tone measured and commanding. "We need to speak with him about an incident yesterday."

The man stepped aside, allowing him and Sam to enter. They found Dawson sitting on the couch, a mix of surprise and apprehension in his eyes as he took in their presence.

"Jason Dawson?" he questioned, wanting to confirm the guy's identity.

"Yeah," the man confirmed with a stiff nod. "Can I help you?"

"We're investigating an incident that took place yesterday," Sam explained, keeping his tone firm but composed. "We have some questions for you."

Dawson's face reddened, and the man clenched his fists as he stood up. "You're here because of that crazy ex of mine, aren't you? That bitch, Rebecca, is trying to ruin my life!"

Callen took a step forward, his own years of experience in handling volatile situations coming into play. "Look, we're not here to take sides. We're just trying to understand what went down between you and Logan Dobson. We just want to talk."

Dawson hesitated, clearly irritated, but the young man finally agreed to speak with them. As Callen questioned their suspect, his partner took the opportunity to perform a cursory search of the house.

Moving through the living room, Sam discreetly checked the garbage can. Among the discarded food containers and wrappers, Sam found something that quickly caught his attention - a bloodstained knife. Sam discreetly got Callen's attention.

"What were you guys arguing about exactly?" he questioned, trying to keep the perp's attention while Sam carefully bagged and tagged the evidence.

Dawson rolled his eyes. "We argued, okay? He threatened to call you guys. But I didn't do anything. He left after our argument, and that's the last I saw of him."

Before Dawson could say anything else, Sam signalled that the knife was secured and Callen swiftly got up and closed the distance between himself and Dawson. Callen then took out his cuffs and began Mirandizing the man. "Jason Dawson, you're under arrest for the murder of Logan Dobson. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights?"

Dawson nodded anxiously, his face pale as he was placed under arrest.

After taking Dawson into custody and ensuring that he was read his rights, Callen and Sam escorted him out of the house. The tension in the air was palpable as the agents led Dawson towards the waiting black Challenger parked a small way down the street.

As they approached the car, Dawson glanced around nervously, the seriousness of the situation hitting him. The neighbours might have noticed the commotion, but he and Sam remained focused on the task at hand.

Callen opened the rear door of the Challenger, gesturing for Dawson to get inside. The former Marine hesitated for a moment, his eyes shifting between the two NCIS agents. It was a small act of defiance, but ultimately he complied, sliding into the backseat.

Once Dawson was securely seated in the car, he and Sam shut the door, ensuring that there was no chance of escape. As the engine roared to life, they headed out to have Dawson booked and processed.

Once that was handled, they went back to OSP, immediately getting started on their pending paperwork. It was far from the most exciting aspect of their job, but Callen did understand why they were necessary. Didn't mean he liked it, though.

As Callen sat at his desk, typing up the After Action Report, he couldn't help but reflect on the events of the day. The mixture of anger and empathy he felt while listening to Rebecca Navarro's story struck a chord within him. His own troubled past, marked by abuse and uncertainty, made him all too aware of the lasting impact such experiences could have on a person.

Once his After Action Report and other documents were submitted, he gave a sigh of relief and started grabbing his things. Sam, for his part, got a call from Kamran who was wondering if her father was free for dinner. Saying a quick goodbye to Sam, he drove home to enjoy some time with his wife, Alex, and Jake.

Callen arrived home shortly after six o’clock to find the aroma of a delicious homemade dinner filling the air as he stepped inside, and he couldn't help but smile. His wife was in the kitchen, presumably putting the finishing touches on the meal, while Alex and Jake sat at the kitchen table chatting.

"Hey, you're back," Anna said, looking up from her task with a welcoming smile. "How did everything go today?"

He approached her, wrapping his arms around her waist and giving her a gentle kiss. "It went well. Handled business. How was yours?"

"Oh, the usual. You know how it is," Anna replied, her eyes sparkling with affection. "And dinner should be ready in no time."

Walking up to him, Alex smiled at him and said, "So, congratulations on the wedding, Grisha." Her smile grew wider. "I finally get to tell you that in person."

"Yeah, congratulations, Uncle Grisha!" his nephew rather enthusiastically chimed in.

"Thank you both," he replied with an appreciative smile.

"Did you do anything fun today?" Jake asked.

He shook his head at the question, a small smile playing on his lips. "Well, not exactly, Jake, but I did have an interesting day. What about you, Buddy? How was school?"

"We did a science experiment this afternoon," Jake said, eager to share. "I was the one mixing everything with the teacher.”

His eyes sparkled with genuine interest as he encouraged his nephew to share more. "That sounds like a lot of fun. What was the experiment?"

Jake's smile grew, eyes brimming with excitement. "We mixed vinegar and baking soda, and the reaction was messy. And, we got to wear safety goggles like real scientists."

"That sounds neat," Anna said with a supportive smile.

The tween continued sharing stories from his day, including some amusing anecdotes about his friends and gym class as they all sat down for the meal. Callen couldn't help but relax. After the day they'd had, he was grateful for the chance to unwind with his family. My life's changed so much.

Chapter 57: Old Bonds, New Beginnings

Callen and Sam stepped into the gym, a basketball in hand, both men wearing cheeky grins. Today was one of those mornings when they decided to keep things light with a playful one-on-one game before duty called. It was a rather nice change of pace from the restless night he'd had - courtesy of another Drona nightmare.

Fourteen-year-old Callen stood outside with his cohort, Group Bravo, each subject temporarily grouped into one of the four smaller units. The training missions were to be undertaken separately, with each unit being assigned a specific time frame to complete their op.

Callen's unit, the fourth and final one, had been waiting for their turn, observing the other Drona units as they undertook their training missions in the unforgiving corridors of the Kill House, which had once again been renovated to alter the layout.

The mission directives varied between units but finally, Callen's unit was given their specific assignment: to secure sensitive documents hidden within the training building in ninety seconds.

With precision and unwavering focus, he and his Drona unit entered the Kill House. Callen felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stepped into it, his heart pounding. The stakes were high, and the weight of the expectations bore heavily upon him. Particularly, as he had been ordered to take point on this training mission.

Things were going quite well as they started clearing the building until Subject Sixteen managed to give them away to the tactical role-players and then get himself shot with simunitions during the mission.

It was a mess but his unit managed to secure the sensitive documents upstairs just as the alarm sounded, signalling the end of their allotted time. A mixture of relief and anxiety washed over him. They'd succeeded at securing the intel, but it had been a close call, and he didn't think that their head teacher was going to like that very much. At least, they hadn't failed their training mission altogether.

Mr. Pembrook, who had observed everything from an adjacent room in the building, stepped forward, clearly unimpressed. The man's focus instantly shifted to Subject Sixteen. "Sixteen, your incompetence nearly jeopardized the mission. You performed abysmally and compromised everything," Mr. Pembrook said icily. "Twelve, your performance was barely acceptable." The headteacher then turned toward Callen and Subject Thirteen, his stern expression softened slightly as he nodded in approval. "As for you two, you performed satisfactorily."

Subject Sixteen's shoulders slumped under the weight of failure, but he maintained a stoic facade. Callen and Subject Thirteen maintained neutral expressions too, though underneath, he was grappling with a mix of emotions from the rare praise from their teacher. He wanted his mentor's approval but he had also been becoming more and more disillusioned as of late. And angry. Things have been really hard lately and it all just seemed so, so damn unfair. "Seventeen, as the mission's leader, it falls upon you to impart the repercussions of failure to your fellow subject."

He blinked, grappling with the understanding of what he was being ordered to do. Callen knew full well what the head teacher meant by that. He also knew that he didn't have a choice in the matter. A part of him was also annoyed at the fact that Subject Sixteen had almost got him punished. "Yes, sir."

Keeping his composure, he met Subject Sixteen's gaze, and for a brief moment, their eyes locked. A silent exchange passed between them, and then he closed the distance and unleashed a series of punches on Subject Sixteen, fully aware of the unforgiving nature of the world they'd both been forced into.

Back in the present, his and Sam’s sneakers squeaked rhythmically as they dribbled the ball, exchanging playful banter as he and Sam weaved between each other. There was an unspoken agreement to have fun rather than be overly competitive but the bantering was part of the fun as far as they were concerned.

He dribbled past the former SEAL, teasing, "You ready for a lesson, Partner?"

His partner chuckled, trying to swipe the ball away, "Don't think you can school me, G."

Dribbling the ball, he made a quick move, faking his partner out, and successfully sank a jump shot. "Two points for me!" he declared with a triumphant grin.

Sam retrieved the ball and dribbled it, turning away from Callen to block his arm. "You won't keep that lead for long!" the former SEAL retorted.

As they continued to play, Nate entered the gym with his briefcase. He observed the lighthearted competition for a couple of minutes before deciding to interrupt. "Morning, guys," the operational psychologist greeted with a small smile.

He and Sam paused their basketball game and turned to Nate. Callen, breathing a tad heavily, said, "Nate. Didn't expect to see you this morning. What's up?"

"I was called in this morning to build a profile for an op Larsen's team is running," the operational psychologist explained. "But, Callen, I was actually hoping we could have a quick chat. Do you have a minute?"

Callen's playful demeanour quickly shifted as he glanced at Nate with a slightly arched brow. He had never been one to open up easily, especially when it came to personal matters. But, despite his initial reluctance, Callen knew he probably should speak with the other man. "Uh, sure," he replied, keeping his tone neutral. "Let's go upstairs." He looked at Sam and said, "Mind if we continue this later, Partner?"

Sam nodded with a good-natured grin, knowing Callen well enough to understand why he wanted a little privacy for the conversation with Nate. "No problem, G. We'll settle this on the court later," he replied, playfully bouncing the basketball in his hand.

Upstairs in Nate's old office, which Callen jokingly called a broom closet, they settled in on the couch. "So, I wanted to check in and see how you're dealing with your new marriage to Anna and being back at work with Hetty," Nate began. "Especially given how you two left things before Syria. How's it been for you?"

"Things between Anna and I are great," he said with a big grin. He leaned back in his chair slightly, giving a reluctant admission. "And work… Hetty being here again… well, she's been allowing me space and I've been taking it."

The operational psychologist nodded, taking notes. "Have you talked to her about her involvement in the training program?"

Callen sighed, running a hand through his hair before replying. "You know I did, Nate." He paused, a mix of frustration and understanding in his expression. "Her and I talked before I left for Greece. She told me her side of things."

"And?" Nate prodded gently, leaning forward slightly. "Where do you stand?"

"I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to completely forgive Hetty for her role in Drona," he admitted. "But I know I want her in my life." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I need time. She knows that and agreed to take things at my pace."

Nate nodded, his expression supportive. "Your feelings towards Hetty are valid, and it's important to take the time and space you need to process them. Forgiveness can be a long and challenging journey. Just remember, forgiveness doesn't mean that you have forgotten or even condone her actions."

He dipped his head slightly. "Yeah." It's letting go of the hurt for yourself. I remember you telling me that during one of our other sessions.

"How are the flashbacks and nightmares?" Nate asked, deciding to move on.

"I'm not having as many as before," he remarked, his tone steady. "But they still creep up sometimes, like last night. I'm handling it."

Nate offered him a reassuring smile. "That seems like progress, Callen."

A flicker of incredulity flashed across his face. How? I'm still having them.

"Remember, progress is a process," the operational psychologist reminded him. "Keep using the grounding strategies we've discussed, and don't be too hard on yourself."

Callen met the psychologist's gaze again, a determined glint in his eyes. "Just keep punching," he said, a subtle nod accompanying the words.

The operational psychologist nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Now, balancing work and your personal life can be tough, but it sounds like you're managing."

"Mykonos was good for us," he stated. He and Anna had both needed to get away and just focus on themselves, detox and reset.

The two men continued their session for a couple of more minutes before it was time for Nate's meeting with Larsen's team down the hall in Ops. Saying a quick goodbye, Callen headed back downstairs to join his team in the bullpen.

As he finally arrived at the bullpen, Hetty entered at about the same time, a stack of folders in her hands. Hetty approached the team and said, "Good morning, everyone." She walked around the bullpen, placing one of the thin folders on each of their desks. "These are the bi-monthly office security assessments for your review. Do be sure to go through them thoroughly."

Sam, seated at his desk, simply nodded in agreement, showing his understanding of the importance of the task even if he wasn't exactly a fan. Callen did not doubt that if their boss wasn't there, his partner would have made some quip about a root canal or something or other.

"Boy, oh, boy!" he quipped sarcastically before taking a seat at his desk, letting out a weary sigh. He was already buried in DTS forms, incident reports, and expenses from before his time off, making this yet another thing on his to-do list. Then, with a smirk, he turned to their boss, "Thank you, Hetty."

Deeks, who had begun flipping through the Manila folder with a raised eyebrow, looked up from the assessment. "Well, folks, at least it's legible this time!" he quipped. "No repeated attempts at changing the cartridge necessary."

Rountree, who had just sat down after pouring a cup of coffee, chimed in, "Paperwork Day, huh? The highlight of every agent's life."

"Indeed, Mr. Rountree!" Hetty remarked, a hint of amusement in her voice. "And I'm glad to see you all in such high spirits. But let's not forget, the assessments, tedious as they may be, are crucial to our operational security." She then turned to him. "Now, Mr. Callen… Expense accounts." She indicated the red folders on his desk. "You're a tad behind."

He shot the Operations Manager a look of mild irritation. "Please tell me you're kidding me, Hetty." I was on my honeymoon, for Pete's sake! Paperwork obviously wasn’t exactly at the top of my list of priorities.

"Well, I could," his foster mother retorted, her tone laced with a firmness that masked a hint of playful teasing, "but it would be a lie."

He raised an eyebrow in response. Apparently, some things never change.

"No rush," his foster mother said, feigning altruism. "Tomorrow will be fine."

With a soft sigh, he shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The familiar interaction with his foster mother, despite their currently strained relationship, provided him with a comforting sense of normalcy. Callen picked up the Manila folder for the office's security assessment, resigning himself to the task at hand.

Paperwork Day was as exciting as eating rice cakes; at least it looked like he'd actually have a solid chance to get caught up today if they weren't needed in the field. The last thing he wanted was to have to juggle both.

In the midst of tackling the paperwork, Callen noticed Hetty and Fatima, engaged in a lively conversation over in Hetty's office. Hetty's eyes briefly met his, and she gave him a small, understanding smile. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, her attention on Fatima once more, but it stirred something within him.

The Hetty in that office was the one who had cared for him as a kid, the one who had shown him kindness and instilled in him a sense of duty and self-worth. The Hetty who had believed so strongly in him, protected him, saved him, and would die for him. As he quietly observed her interaction with Fatima, he saw that familiar mentorship and support. Not the cold C.I.A operative she had once been.

He couldn't help but think back to their conversation in that exact same office after the whole Akhos debacle back in late December of 2019.

"You have never failed me, Hetty. Or anyone on this team," he said, his voice firm as he tried to stop her from beating herself up. "And you never will."

"I worry I already have, Mr. Callen," his foster mother countered softly. "And we're just waiting for the pennies to drop."

"We will cross that bridge if and when we get there," he replied without hesitation. "Together. As a family."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, turning his focus back onto his paperwork.

He knew that navigating their complex relationship would be an ongoing battle, but as Callen dived back into the paperwork, some of the anger and hurt faded. Ever since he was a teen, Hetty had been everything to him. He really didn't want to lose her.

Chapter 58: The Incarceration Connection

Callen's eyes fluttered open, the soft morning sunlight seeping in through the curtains. He slowly got out of bed, noting that his wife was already up. Throwing some clothes on, Callen made his way out of their bedroom. In the kitchen, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit him, a thoughtful gesture from his wife, who knew how much he liked his early morning cup of coffee. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

He chuckled, taking the steaming mug. "Thank you." He took a sip of his coffee and then leaned up against their kitchen counter. "So, I was thinking… why don't we try that new Greek place right off the beach tonight? Make it a date night?"

"Sounds perfect," Anna readily agreed. "Just let me know when." With both of their jobs, his in particular, it made it hard to ever really guarantee a date or time.

Having a light breakfast, he and Anna headed out for a run together, their footsteps falling into an easy rhythm as they run through the quiet neighbourhood, a brief escape from the high-stress world of NCIS.

Anna, catching her breath after falling in step beside him, joked, "Did you put rocket boosters in your sneakers, or did you down several energy drinks this morning?"

"Oh, ye of little faith!" he fired back with a cheeky grin. "This right here is just good genes and a dash of secret agent finesse."

"Uh-huh," she quipped in mock awe. "Just don't go making me eat your dust. Oh, and save some of that energy for date night."

"Deal," he replied with an amused smile.

His wife then broke into a full-on sprint, running straight past him before he knew what was happening. "Teper' postaraysya ne otstavat'!" (Now, try to keep up!)

He rolled his eyes and then picked up the pace himself. As he passed the blonde again, he shot her a wry smile. "I ty chto govorila?" (And you were saying?)

Heading home after they finished their morning run, they both had a quick shower and threw on work-appropriate clothes, Anna having to go into her office soon as well. Sam then swung by the house to pick Callen up on his way to work.

Going to the gym, Sam and Callen decided to work on their Sayoc skills, sweat pouring down as the two men practiced their moves. They were both focused and determined, knowing that staying sharp was essential in their line of work. They were caught up on paperwork and didn't have an active case yet, so they took advantage of the chance to train together until shortly after ten that morning.

Just as they were catching their breath, their phones simultaneously buzzed. Checking his phone, Callen saw that it was an alert requesting them upstairs.

"We're needed up in Ops," he informed his partner.

Sam nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Let's go see what's up."

Instantly shifting gears and falling into work mode, they wasted no time putting their Kali sticks back in their gym lockers, grabbing their NCIS shields, and holstering their service weapons before booking it upstairs to the Operations Centre.

"Finally," Hetty deadpanned. "Nice of you gentlemen to join us." She then turned to Kensi. "Agent Blye, if you would."

A picture of a man named Caleb Rivera appeared on the screen. "Two weeks ago, an NCIS agent from our San Diego field office was found dead in a hotel room, stabbed," Kensi explained. "Unfortunately, SDPD quickly discovered a militia connection."

"Specifically, a connection to the Pacific Freedom Brigade," Fatima added. The younger agent swiftly pulled a photograph of the man in question up onto the big screen. "The killer, Ben McCallister, has already been taken into custody."

"McCallister?" Sam reiterated. "Not the son of Landon McCallister?"

"The very same," Hetty confirmed with a curt nod.

"Sorry," Rountree said, "but who is Landon McCallister?"

Sam turned to the younger agent. "The head of the militia," he explained.

"Precisely," Hetty confirmed. "Unfortunately, we've been unable to get any information on the militia's plans during interrogation. He also rejected the deal he was offered in exchange for the intel. Apparently, he's more than content to go to prison."

"Turned down a deal?" Deeks said, a bit surprised. "That's gotta be a first."

"We need to get someone on the inside," Hetty said, unperturbed. "Put one of our own in a position to gain the younger McCallister's trust." She turned to him. "To that end, Mr. Callen, you'll be going undercover as an inmate in Donovan State Prison."

Callen nodded, thinking back to his last undercover stint in Oakville Prison. He wasn't exactly looking forward to it, but it needed to be done. "Got it, Hetty."

"Agents Blye and Namazi," Hetty continued, indicating the two female agents with her left hand, "have already begun the necessary backstopping. They'll also assist Agents Deeks and Rountree with the external investigation." She turned to Sam. "Mr. Hanna, you'll provide backup while your partner's on the inside."

"You've been backstopped as a prison guard," Kensi jumped in to explain.

Sam nodded, having already assumed that was going to be the case.

Leaving Ops, Callen and Sam headed back downstairs and quickly changed into their undercover outfits in Wardrobe, Deeks and Roundtree joining them. Sam threw on the prison guard uniform, Deeks and Rountree their LAPD uniforms, and Callen tossed on the Los Angeles County Men's Central Jail uniform, internally groaning.

After they had both changed, Kensi and Hetty walked up to him. They handed him the dossier containing a wallet with all the necessary cards and identification for Callen's backstop identity as well as a document outlining his cover story to comb through.

Opening the dossier, he started reading it out to himself: "Nolan Wells, age forty-nine, from Pasadena… Former foster kid… Enlisted in the Marines at eighteen… several minor offences including DisCon and Resisting Arrest… DD'd for insubordination... Have a bit of a temper. In for assault... Due to be released in six months."

He reviewed the cover story carefully, committing his undercover persona to memory, and mentally prepared himself for the upcoming deep cover op.

Callen and Sam then prepared a box of fake personal belongings to align with Callen's cover and transfer story: a functional urban outfit, some toiletries, a set of keys, and the fake wallet he'd been given several minutes earlier.

He then took out his phone to call Anna. He knew it was important to let her know the little that he could and not just vanish on her if it could be helped.

"Hey, Anna," he said as he reached her voicemail. "Listen, I've got a work assignment that's going to take me away for a while. I can't go into too much detail, but I wanted to let you know. I love you. And uh… talk to you when I can."

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, feeling a little guilty about having to postpone their date night. It wasn't the first or last time, though.

Deeks, sensing the tension, patted him on the shoulder. "She'll understand, man. It's just part of the gig. Anna knows that."

Callen gave a half-smile, appreciating the younger man's support. "Yeah, I know. She's been in the game for a long time herself. It still sucks, though."

"Fair enough," Deeks agreed.

Once they were all ready, Deeks and Rountree finally drove Callen down to Donovan, Sam making the drive separately to help keep their respective covers intact.

As Deeks handcuffed Callen and led him out of the car, he could sense the tension in the air. Callen's hands were now restrained, a reminder of the high-stakes nature of this mission. He couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. It had been a while since he'd gone undercover in a place like this, and the memories of his time in Oakville Prison came rushing back.

With Deeks holding him firmly by the arm, they began the walk towards the entrance of Richard J. Donovan Correctional Facility.

It took ages to pass through the security checks and the extensive intake process, but eventually, he was handed a new prison uniform and led to his, thankfully, empty cell. At least, I don't have an obnoxious cellmate to deal with this time.

The cold, grey walls and the hard, narrow bunk were a lot easier to handle, in Callen's opinion. He'd had worse accommodations over the years.

Across the narrow corridor, he could see the cell where his mark, Ben McCallister, was currently sitting on his bunk, reading some book to pass the time.

He placed his meagre belongings on the narrow bunk and sat down, making it appear like he was settling in. Callen glanced across the corridor, locking eyes briefly with his mark, who looked up from his book. Callen could sense a sense of curiosity in the other man's gaze, which was a good sign.

Walking up to the door of his cell, McCallister finally addressed him. "So, what's your name, New Guy?" the man asked, his tone light.

"Nolan Wells," he replied in a calm but measured tone. Callen adopted a mildly curious look and flipped the question around. "What about you?"

"Ben McCallister," the other man replied. McCallister then leaned against the cell door, eyeing him curiously. "So, Nolan, what are you in for?"

"Assault," he replied, making sure to stick to his cover story. He walked up to the door of his cell. "Got into a fight that got out of hand."

McCallister arched an eyebrow. "A fight, huh?" The guy seemed to mull what he'd said over for a moment. "I've been there. This your first time inside?"

"I've had a few run-ins," he replied, being intentionally vague with his response. "What about you, McCallister? What's your story?"

A faint, wry smile crossed the other man's face as he leaned against his cell door. "Me? I've been through this song and dance a few times."

A few minutes later, one of the guards led Sam Hanna down the corridor. He watched as his partner, now a prison guard named Lamar Thompson, walked by his cell. Their eyes briefly met, and Sam gave a subtle nod to acknowledge his presence. It was a silent reassurance that, as always, they were in this together. Even in the high-stress environment they currently found themselves in.

Chapter 59: Lockdown Chess

A week had passed since Callen's entry into the concrete jungle that was Donovan State Prison, and he was getting used to the rhythm of clanging bars and echoing footsteps. The routine was rather monotonous: morning roll-call, breakfast, trash-pickup detail, lunch, leisure time, dinner and then either leisure time or his anger management class depending on the day. His cell, a cramped space, offered a minor escape from the constant scrutiny.

Anna's face lingered in his thoughts during those long nights on the narrow bunk. The separation sucked, and he couldn't wait to wrap up the case and go home.

Then there was McCallister, the guy he was here to cozy up to. It started with the usual dance of suspicion, but slowly, over chow and stolen moments in the corridor, they started sharing more than just nods. Assault stories turned into a surprisingly real talk about prison life, each trying to figure the other out.

During a few of those talks, Callen detected a chink in McCallister's tough-guy armour. It was like they were both playing poker, showing just enough cards to keep the game interesting. Each inmate was assessing the other for weaknesses while also trying to conceal their true intentions.

As the days rolled by, the game continued. Now, after a week in prison, he felt like he was making some headway with his mark. He was hopefully starting to earn some of the other inmate's trust.

In the gritty ambiance of the prison yard, McCallister got his attention. "Nolan."

Walking away from the basketball game he'd been playing, Callen went and joined the other man over at the barbwire fence. "What's up?" he asked.

"Same old, same old," McCallister stated with a casual air. The guy's expression shifted slightly. "So, where'd you go to school?"

He, maintaining his cover, gave a casual shrug. "School? Well, I bounced around some back in the day. Stayed at Blair High School the longest. Why?"

McCallister, momentarily taken aback by the straightforward answer, shifted his focus. "Eh, just curious. You're from Pasadena, right?"

He dipped his head slightly. "Uh-huh."

"Driven through there a couple of times," McCallister mused. "Navigating the parking felt more like a Mission: Impossible stunt."

"Minus Tom Cruise," he quipped.

"Damn straight," the man laughed. "And when's your birthday, by the way?"

Callen quickly wracked his brain for his alias' birthdate, doing his best to keep his voice and body language relaxed. "April 21, '74."

The questions continued, probing into Callen's undercover persona's past. "You got any siblings?" McCallister inquired. "I've got a sister, myself."

"None," he replied, shaking his head slightly. "Grew up in foster care - mostly just me, unless you count the revolving door of foster siblings."

McCallister nodded, absorbing the information. "Foster care, huh? Must've been rough. Any close friends growing up?"

He leaned back against the fence, staring into the distance. "One or two, but you learn to keep your circle small, you know?"

"I can appreciate that," McCallister replied. "Been burned once or twice myself."

He dipped his head slightly. "Survival's the name of the game, right?"

McCallister grinned and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. "I think I like you, Nolan. I hope you don't make me change my mind."

"And what would happen if I do?" he fired back, a hint of challenge in his eyes.

McCallister's eyes narrowed slightly and he gestured vaguely with his hand. "Ask around, my friend."

Callen, hearing the warning in the other man's words, tried to reassure the man while standing his ground. "Well, McSly, if I ever give you a reason to reconsider, just remember… I've dealt with tougher critics than you," he said with a wry smile. "But I prefer smooth collaborations over complications."

"You've got some grit, Nolan," McCallister complimented him, a faint smile playing on the other man's lips. "I like your style."

As he and McCallister continued their little chat, a sudden commotion erupted nearby. His eyes flickered toward the fight, a subtle tension in his posture.

Several inmates started exchanging heated words, it quickly escalating into a full-on confrontation. As the fight continued, Sam's loud voice came from over by the doors, catching everyone's attention. "Break it up, or you'll all be in lockdown!"

As the inmates reluctantly scattered, Callen positioned himself strategically near where McCallister was now busy talking with a younger inmate Callen had briefly spoken to a couple of times himself. He pretended to be focused on something else as he listened in on the conversation. "The clock's ticking, Parker. The picnic's set to go down in just over three weeks. So, figure it the hell out. Quickly."

Parker, who had briefly looked quite nervous, reassured McCallister, "Don't worry, Mac. I'll handle everything by then. No worries."

McCallister gave a curt nod. "You better, my friend, or it's on you."

Intrigued by what he heard but not wanting to arouse suspicion, he decided to shift his focus temporarily. He made his way back onto the prison yard's basketball court, once more engaging in a game with a few of the calmer inmates. However, he did risk a quick glance back just in time to see McCallister hastily shoving a flip-phone into one of his socks and covering it with his jumpsuit's pant leg.

After a spirited match, he and the others headed to the Chow Hall for lunch. It wasn't anything to brag about but he'd certainly had worse meals. At least it wasn't rice and beans, yet again. He was already getting sick of that. Not that Callen thought the soy burger being served that day was anything to rave about.

After lunch, Callen discreetly cornered Parker Hastings in a quieter area of the prison's library. "Hey, man. You reading anything good?"

Parker shook his head. "Nah, just trying to pass the time." The young man then closed the book he was reading and turned toward Callen. "What's up?"

"Just trying to pass the time," he quipped. He tilted his head slightly. "How old are you, man?"

"Eighteen last month," Parker replied. "Why?"

"Damn, you're barely out of high school," he said. There has to be a way to get this kid out of this mess. He could still turn things around. He has his whole life ahead of him. "Why are you in here?"

"Long story," the younger man said with an expression Callen recognized all too well. It was one he'd worn himself many times.

He gave a little hum. "You got someplace to be?" he asked in jest.

Parker chuckled and then his expression turned more serious. "I got, uh, pinched for theft. Was just trying to get by, you know?"

At least he's only doing a few months. Callen couldn't help but think back to when he was stealing and such in an attempt to survive after running away from his last foster home before Hetty's. "I get it."

As they chatted about the more mundane aspects of prison life, he slowly steered their conversation to what he heard out in the prison yard. "I saw you talking to Mac earlier. What exactly's the deal with this picnic he went on about?"

Parker hesitated momentarily, glancing around before responding. "Look, man, here's the deal. I got mixed up in something I don't wanna be in."

"And what's that?" he pressed.

The younger man sighed, torn between ratting and self-preservation. After a moment, he spoke. "Mac's got some big plan set for late July. A picnic's just what he calls it. He asked me to steal a set of keys and get him a copy of the building's blueprints."

His eyes narrowed. "Keys and blueprints, huh?" he mused. "Sounds like Mac's planning something big. Any idea what he wants with them?"

Parker shook his head. "Not exactly. There's been talk about some exchange, but I'm not sure about the details. That's all I know, I swear."

He nodded, absorbing the information. "Listen, Parker, I might be able to help you out of this mess, but I need you to keep playing your head down and me in the loop about this picnic. Trust me, it's in your best interest."

Parker eyed him cautiously but eventually nodded. "Fine. But you gotta promise you'll help me once it's over. Mac's not going to like this."

"I'll do what I can," Callen promised, wracking his brain for how to get a minute alone with Sam without garnering too much attention.

Exiting the anger management class later that evening, he kept an eye out for Sam. Spotting him down the corridor, Callen quickly hatched a plan. In a calculated move, he provoked an inmate standing nearby, deliberately escalating the situation to the point where it caught the attention of the guards. Sam, ever watchful, ran over to break up the altercation.

He and the other inmate were separated and then Sam, maintaining his role, pulled out a pair of handcuffs in evident irritation. "Congratulations, Wells. Looks like all that anger management's paying off." Callen felt the cuffs tighten around his wrists. "You get the VIP treatment – a few days in the box."

He rolled his eyes and allowed Sam to escort him to the Special Housing Unit where it would at least provide some privacy. The prospect of being in seg for the next couple of days didn't exactly thrill Callen, though.

Once they were away from prying eyes, Sam turned to him. "What's up, G? I assume you've got a reason for that performance back there."

"Needed to talk privately," he said, getting straight to the point. "McCallister's planning something big for late July. He enlisted a kid named Parker, sourcing keys, blueprints, talking about an exchange."

Sam's eyebrows arched in concern. "Keys and blueprints? That's no walk in the park, G. Did Parker say what McCallister wants?"

"No, but we better figure that out," he replied. "Oh, the guy managed to smuggle in a phone. Maybe you can get something off that."

"We should check Parker's background, see if he's been involved in anything similar," Sam said. "And we need to find out who McCallister's dealing with on the outside."

His arched a brow. "I'm guessing his father."

"I'll get Ops and Cyber on it," Sam said, his expression turning more serious. "In the meantime, we need to make sure McCallister doesn't find out about our investigation. Why the SHU, though?"

With a sigh, he explained, "Had to make it look convincing. The last thing we need is for McCallister to start suspecting I'm a rat."

"True," Sam replied, unclasping the handcuffs. Sam then gave him a look of mixed concern and determination. "Hang tight, Brother. Keep yourself active in here, and we'll catch up in a few days. I'll give you a sit-rep then."

He just nodded in response, not having much else to say. He knew he made the right call but it didn't mean he particularly liked it.

The heavy cell door clanged shut, plunging him firmly into the suffocating solitude of the SHU. The faint light flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the cold, concrete walls. The metallic tang of the cell bars mingled with the musty scent in the air and the distant murmurs of the other inmates added to the disquieting ambiance. Leaning against the unforgiving metal bunk, he couldn't escape the biting chill seeping into his jumpsuit. As he ran through the case details and Parker's situation, he ended up taking a trip down memory lane. Past screw-ups and questionable choices began parading through his mind like a highlight reel.

He was in for a long next few days, to put it mildly.

Chapter 60: A Prisoner's Dilemma

In the dimly lit solitude of the SHU, Callen was doing yet another set of pushups, the physical exertion helping him to focus in the suffocating stillness. Otherwise, all Callen had to do was stare at cinderblock walls while cameras were on him 24/7.

The harsh clank of the cell door disrupted his rhythm. He paused mid-motion, glancing up as the door swung open, revealing one of the prison guards. After five days in seg, today was hopefully the day he'd get to return to general population.

"Lucky day, Wells. You're going back to general population," the guard disclosed with a rather dispassionate tone. "Let's go."

He rose to his feet with a sigh, feeling a mixture of relief and wariness at the prospect of rejoining the general population. He was glad to be getting out of seg but knew that he was going to be jumping right back into the mission.

Exiting the cramped cell, Callen squinted against the blinding assault of the overhead lights, his eyes adjusting to the stark contrast from the dimly lit Special Housing Unit.

As Callen followed the Corrections Officer down the long corridor, he couldn't shake the knot of tension in the pit of his stomach. The cool air felt alien after several days of the SHU's stifling atmosphere.

The distant hum of conversations grew louder as they approached the bustling general population area. Once in Cellblock B, the C.O. left Callen to finish making his way to his cell. Glancing around, he kept a nonchalant demeanour as the other inmates eyed him with a blend of curiosity and indifference.

As Callen stepped in front of his cell, which he was clearly sharing with a cellmate now, he felt McCallister's presence before seeing the man. Placing his clean, folded uniform and toiletries down on his bunk, Callen turned around to see the other man standing in the doorway with a confident swagger.

"Look who's out of the SHU," McCallister remarked, a sly grin on the man's face. "Did you miss us noisy neighbours?"

His lips curved into a wry smile. "Well, I've been known to appreciate a good change of scenery. Keeps life interesting, you know?" he retorted.

The new cellmate, a burly man with a shaved head and an assortment of tattoos, then walked up and eyed Callen. Callen held his hand out, offering a small nod as he did so. "Nolan Wells," he greeted, deliberately trying to be respectful.

The man grunted, shaking Callen's hand with a firm grip. "Silas Barker. Keep your side of the cell clean, Wells, and we won't have problems."

Callen nodded in agreement, silently hoping his new cellmate wasn't as bad as the last one he had. Luckily for him, Barker just decided to retreat to his bunk and he was able to just focus on his own business.

Callen was playing basketball out in the prison yard after lunch with some of the other inmates when Parker got his attention. Signalling that he was finished playing, Callen began walking over to where Parker was.

"Nolan!" the younger man exclaimed.

"Parker," he replied, extending his as he did so.

The pair shared a quick fist bump and then Callen sat down beside Parker on the worn bench, the younger man smiling at him. "What's up?"

"How you been?" he deflected, subtly redirecting the conversation.

"Good. I'm okay, you know?" Parker said before clasping him on the shoulder. "Glad to have you back, man."

A genuine smile, tinged with a touch of vulnerability, graced Callen's face as he leaned back against the bench. "It's good to be back, my man." He tilted his head a tad as he continued speaking. "So, what's been happening around here?"

Parker adopted a slightly more serious expression. "Mac's been on edge since you got put in seg, man. He's been tight-lipped about the picnic, but I heard him talking to that C.O., Turner last night. He wanted some info double-checked."

Callen nodded, briefly wondering if McCallister was having the Corrections Officer look into him. Unfortunately, that line of inquiry could go either way. Noting that several of the other inmates were making their way over to the benches, he swiftly steered their conversation to something safer.

As he continued chatting with Parker about the younger man's plans once he got out, the yard buzzed with a mixture of conversations and activities.

As the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows across the prison yard, the blaring announcement of count time echoed through the facility. Inmates filed back to their cells for the routine count, the clinking sound of the cell doors closing punctuating the air. Unfortunately, his cellmate's disposition hadn't improved.

Dinner time came and went such as it was. Seizing the opportunity, he made his way to the currently empty chapel, leaving the doors slightly ajar. Sam, having shot him a discreet look back in the chow hall, carefully followed behind. Thankfully, McCallister and several of his main crew were occupied with a special work assignment courtesy of the warden and presumably Sam's prior planning.

Stepping into the brightly lit chapel, the hallowed silence and faint scent of aged wood enveloped him. Callen took a moment to collect his thoughts, standing near the front pew, while Sam quietly closed the chapel doors behind them.

"What's up, G?" Sam asked, keeping his voice low. "You've been on edge since you got out of the SHU this morning. What's going on?"

"It must be all the riveting conversations with my new cellie," he replied sarcastically. Callen then gave an exasperated sigh. "And to add to the fun, Mac's now working with Officer Turner. Has him looking into me."

As Sam absorbed this information, his brow furrowed with concern. "Any idea why he's suddenly so interested in you?"

He shook his head, frustration evident in his eyes. "No clue, but I don't like it."

Sam crossed his arms, wearing a pensive expression. "Hopefully, he's just vetting you before bringing you in."

He nodded in agreement. "Definitely preferable to the alternative."

Just then the door to the chapel creaked open, and Sam's gaze shifted towards it with a calm anticipation. However, Callen's own initial reaction was quite different. Anxious and on edge, Callen tensed, expecting a fight. As he realized who it was though, his shoulders began to relax. Alright, it's just Warden Sterling.

The warden gave them both a small nod. "Officer Thompson, Mr. Wells."

Callen offered a respectful nod in return, relieved that she'd decided to use their alias' instead of actual names.

Sam nodded in acknowledgment as well. "Warden."

She turned her focus to Callen. "I've been informed that you've returned to general population, Mr. Wells. I trust your transition has been smooth?"

He inclined his head slightly. "As smooth as it gets in here, Warden. Just adjusting to the new cell dynamics."

"I've been monitoring your situation closely, Mr. Wells," the warden explained. "Officer Thompson here's been keeping me as informed as he can. I want to assure you that your safety's a priority." A look of amusement crossed the woman's face. "I must say, Mr. Wells, not many people actively try to get put in the SHU."

"Just trying to keep things interesting, Warden!" he replied in jest. "Variety is the spice of life, after all. Even in here."

The warden's gaze held a mix of scrutiny and understanding. It was so like Hetty's, it shocked him. "Indeed, Mr. Wells. Now, I understand that there has been some progress on your investigation?"

Warden Sterling listened attentively as he and Sam quickly provided her with a general overview of where they were at with their investigation.

As the conversation progressed, Sam then informed Callen that Fatima and Kensi had successfully recovered several coded text messages from the burner phone that was confiscated from McCallister during the cell searches for the entire cellblock that were conducted the previous day at Sam's request. They were still working on decoding the texts although they were traced back to Landon McCallister.

The warden nodded and glanced between both of the agents. "I appreciate the update. Please continue to keep me informed of any significant developments."

Both agents nodded and then the three of them began leaving the chapel separately, Callen returning to his cell a while before McCallister was back in his own. Barker was being irritating so Callen started reading a book from the library, barely acknowledging McCallister when the guy remerged. Just in time for count.

As the metallic click of the cell doors echoed, signalling the end of another day, Callen laid down on his bunk, a quiet unease settling in. The weight of captivity bore down on him, and Callen couldn't help but wonder just how much longer he would be a prisoner and just what tomorrow would bring.

Chapter 61: Clinking Glasses, Mending Fences

In the quiet monotony of prison life, three uneventful weeks drifted by within the cold, grey walls. Nevertheless, Callen did manage to dig up intel that his mark was planning a major break-out for the members of his militia. Discreetly, he then arranged to meet Sam in the prison chapel after lunch, briefing his partner on the situation. The short briefing led to a series of cell searches and landed McCallister in the SHU, a whole new set of charges hanging heavy over the guy's head.

Late that following morning, during Callen's not-so-glamorous work assignment, Sam carefully walked up behind him and said, "Looks like a clear sky ahead."

Acknowledging the verbal code with a subtle nod, Callen continued his mundane task, putting another piece of random garbage into the trash bag he was holding. He'd been working quickly before but decided to noticeably slow down and give Sam an opening.

"Taking your sweet time there, Wells? I've seen snails move faster," Sam remarked, a smirk playing on his lips. They had to set up a believable physical altercation so that he could be escorted off the work site.

He turned and shot his partner a glare before returning to his task.

"You got a problem, Wells?" Sam prodded. "Damn well pick up the pace."

"Just relax, man," he replied, wiping his forehead with the back of his right hand. "It's blazing hot out here."

"I suggest you enjoy the fresh air," Sam retorted, his gaze narrowing.

He tossed his rake aside, an audacious grin on his face. "I'm enjoying it now."

"Pick that up and get back to work," Sam demanded.

"Why don't you pick it up?" he retorted.

Sam shot him an expectant look. "Pick it up."

He picked up the rake and swung it at Sam who swiftly blocked him and hit him in the stomach with his baton causing Callen to let out a grunt. Sam then tossed his baton to one of the other guards and pulled Callen's hands behind his back.

"Well done, Wells!" Sam retorted, placing handcuffs on Callen who'd adopted a slightly chagrined look. "You got your wish. You'll be begging for some sun after two weeks in the box." Sam eyed the large group of inmates who'd stopped working to watch their altercation. "What are you all looking at? Get back to work!"

The nearby guard mirrored Sam's expression and addressed the crowd. "You heard him!"

Being walked off of the work site, Sam escorted Callen right back to Donovan and then down to the Special Housing Unit.

Once Callen was seen being taken to the SHU, his partner left to discretely meet with the warden. Sam would gather the personal items Callen had come in with and then the warden would do her part administratively.

The metallic clank of the cell door finally disrupted the silence as Sam entered with an air of calculated indifference. "Wells, you're being transferred. Come on."

He met his partner's gaze with feigned confusion. "Transferred? What? Why?"

"Overcrowding," Sam replied brusquely. "Just get up and let's go."

Giving a small nod, Callen rose to his feet and made his way over to Sam. Cuffed once again as the other inmates in the area could see him, Callen was then snuck out of the maintenance exit towards the back and put into an agency car.

Once they were safely headed down the highway, Sam filled him in. "Four PFB members have been arrested, thanks to the messages on McCallister's burner. He flipped on his dad during interrogation too, so the militia's collapsed."

Callen nodded in satisfaction, glad that it was over and that everything had fallen into place. "Good work, Partner. But… Let's not do this again anytime soon."

His partner laughed. "Yeah, I hear ya." Sam then eyed Callen's shaggy brown hair and beard, a teasing grin playing on his lips. "And you should consider keeping the rugged look you got going on, G. It suits you."

Callen rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile breaking through. "I'll stick to shaving, thanks. This wasn't exactly a five-star spa experience."

"Fair enough," Sam replied with another laugh. "So, we gotta swing by the office for a debrief. You can shower and change there."

Arriving at OSP, Callen quickly headed to the locker room for a much-needed shower and change of clothes. He really didn't want to be in that prison jumpsuit any longer than strictly necessary. As Callen scrubbed away the grime from his undercover stint, he couldn't help but appreciate the familiarity of his surroundings. It felt like coming home in a weird way after it being his Permanent Duty Station for so many years.

Having just thrown on a clean set of clothes, Callen heard his partner from outside the locker room. "Hurry up, G. We've got a debrief to get to."

Rolling his eyes, he walked out and shoved his stuff into his locker. He then followed Sam down to Hetty's office. Admiral Kilbride stood beside Hetty in her office, deep in conversation, as he and Sam entered. Her sharp gaze shifted from the Admiral to his dishevelled appearance. She eyed him for a moment, a hint of amusement shining in her eyes. "Mr. Callen, I see you embraced the rugged aesthetic. Did the razor I bought you finally suffer a breakdown or did you simply forgo using it?"

He rolled his eyes, glad to hear her dry humour after everything. He couldn't help but appreciate the familiarity, even if they hadn't been speaking much before his latest undercover stint. "Well, I thought I'd try out the 'undercover inmate' look. It's all the rage in the SHU," he replied with a wry grin.

"Indeed," Hetty replied. She leaned back in her chair slightly. "Now, shall we have our operational debrief?"

"That would be nice," Admiral Kilbride stated tersely.

As they began the debrief, he and Sam recounted the details of their operation, Callen elaborating on more of the details he'd simply not had the time to elaborate on while locked up in Donovan. Sam focused more on the critical role of McCallister's intel and the subsequent dismantling of the Pacific Freedom Brigade. Hetty and Admiral Kilbride listened attentively, both of their gazes piercing but approving.

"Wells, despite your questionable grooming choices, this mission was a success," the Admiral interjected with a gruff tone. "Good work, agents."

He couldn't help but smirk at the Admiral's comment. "Thanks, Admiral. I'll consider sticking to the clean-shaven look for future assignments."

Hetty raised her eyebrows and chimed in. "A wise choice, Mr. Callen."

After the debrief, Callen and Sam returned to their desks to deal with the reports for the case. Their usual banter filled the bullpen, a stark contrast to the atmosphere of Donovan State Prison. The rest of the team, noticing Callen's return, walked over and eyed him with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

Deeks chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, you really committed to the role, huh?"

"Guess I missed the memo on the new dress code," Roundtree quipped, a playful grin on his face.

Fatima nodded in agreement, a smirk playing on her lips. "Yeah, I must've skipped the chapter on undercover fashion in the training manual."

"Don't get me wrong, I love it," Deeks remarked. "I missed that angelic bathmat. It's so glorious and it looks so fluffy. I just wanna touch it."

Kensi grinned and said, "Well, you have always known how to make an impression."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing around at his team. "Finished having your fun yet, or is this gonna be an ongoing thing?"

Amidst the laughter, the team settled back into their routine, catching up on the latest cases and sharing stories from their time apart. It felt good to be back, surrounded by familiar faces and the comforting chaos of the OSP.

As the day at the Office of Special Projects wound down just past 1700, Callen couldn't escape the contemplative mood that settled over him as his eyes landed on Hetty who was sitting in her office, still typing away.

The gratitude he felt for Hetty was undeniable. She had been there for him when he was a lost teenager, caught in a web of uncertainty and ever-revolving foster homes. She gave him stability, a semblance of family, and a purpose that guided him through his high school and young adult years. Her wisdom and unwavering support had seen him through countless challenges, and for that, he was profoundly thankful.

Yet, intertwined with his gratitude were conflicting emotions over Drona that he just couldn't seem to let go of. He wasn't as angry with her as he had been, but a part of him still felt used. Like he'd just been some guinea pig. He knew it wasn't as simple as that, though. She'd made a mistake, but she did care. But all the lies…. She could’ve and should’ve told him the truth.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Callen got up from his desk and started walking over to her office. There were a couple of field agents and support staff there quickly wrapping things up, but most of the lights were off now and Callen knew they weren't likely to be interrupted.

His former foster mother looked up almost instantly, and in the warm glow of her desk lamp, he could see a shadow of hurt cross her face before she schooled her expression to something more neutral. "Mr. Callen?"

He swallowed. How could that simple question make him feel like a kid again, looking through the windows of the group home he'd frequented repeatedly at happy families walking around and feeling so alone as he sat on his bed?

He avoided her gaze for a brief second before meeting it head-on. "Hetty," he said evenly, "we need to talk."

With a gentle wave of her hand, she invited him to take a seat. "Of course, Mr. Callen. Please, sit."

Callen sank, shoulders slumped, into the chair where he had spent so much time and evenings over the years. Callen knew he was sitting in it like a sullen teenager, like the sullen teenager he had been when she'd taken him in. His thoughts were in disarray, and his emotions were even worse. But Hetty was there, calm, and open. She was keeping her promise to take things at his pace and be open with him.

Callen let out a sigh. "It's about the Drona Project," he explained, his gaze focused but guarded.

Hetty nodded curtly, maintaining her usual air of professionalism. "I figured as much, Mr. Callen. What about it?"

His jaw tightened briefly before he spoke. "It's not about the program per se. It's about trust. I thought I could trust you completely, and then... everything changed."

Hetty's gaze held a touch of regret as she nodded. "Trust is a delicate matter. I never meant to betray yours, Mr. Callen. Please know that."

He sighed heavily. "It's not that simple, Hetty. And it's this feeling of being used, being a guinea pig." He gave a bitter laugh and leaned forward slightly. "Hell, I had a subject number instead of a name. I was just a weapon.” 

Hetty's expression softened with rare vulnerability. "I played a role as a recruiter, and I won't diminish the pain it caused. But Mr. Callen, you were never some experiment to me. You're family, and I deeply regret how much my decision hurt you. And, for the record, it was never my intent to dehumanize you or the others."

He leaned back again, running a hand through his hair. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be treated like that? To feel like you're just an experiment?" He sighed. "I want to forgive you, but I need you to understand the price of indoctrinating kids."

Hetty's response was immediate as she leaned forward and took his hand. "Callen, I give you my word. I've learned from the mistakes of the past, and I will never allow something like the Drona Project to happen again. I have always done and always will do everything in my power to protect those who fell under my wing."

"I know," he agreed, giving her a mournful smile. "I guess it's just been hard to accept that you're a mere mortal like the rest of us." He sat up straighter and echoed the words he'd told her back during the Akhos mess. "You did the best that you could with what you had for someone you love."

The petit woman eyed him with a small, sad smile. "I'm just sorry you paid the price, Dear."

Callen’s eyes softened slightly and, for a moment, the weight of everything seemed to lift.

He suddenly realized that Hetty had always expected for this to happen. She had cared for him, had taught him and got him through high school, and prepared him for the world, always assuming that one day the memories would come back and that he would react exactly like he initially had. Consumed by anger. That she would inevitably lose him. "Yeah, well, we all make mistakes. That never changes."

Hetty dipped her head slightly. "Indeed."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Maybe we ought to, uh, continue this over a drink. Just you and me. You and Reggie always used to say, 'Family never sleeps on an argument,' after all."

Reggie was Hetty’s driver and security guard for years before Duke. 

Hetty's eyes lit up with a mix of surprise and warmth and she nodded gently. "I'd like that, Son." Callen, caught off guard by the term of endearment, blinked in surprise, and she stood up and took two tumblers out. "And, considering recent events, I think some Glen Garioch is in order."

As Hetty poured the amber liquid into the glasses, he found a moment of solace in the familiar routine and the rich, oaky fragrance wafting from the tumblers. The remaining tension in the room almost completely dissipated as the pair clinked glasses, the sound echoing through the quiet office.

Sipping the Scotch, he mulled over Pembrook's words from the last time they had met. 'Call her what you will... you mean everything to her. You've been far from an orphan. You've been loved deeply.' He'd seen her as a mother figure for ages, but he'd never put words to it, partly out of fear of rejection. It's what had made the doubt that she genuinely cared for him so painful.  

The liquid courage in his hand mirrored the courage he finally summoned. "You know, Mom, this is pretty damn good," he said, the words carrying a level of vulnerability he hadn't dared express before. It's definitely better than that bottle of crap she got from her buddy Basser.

Hetty raised an eyebrow at the unexpected term of endearment, a mix of surprise and warmth in her eyes. "It's certainly better than that awful batch of Iskristkii I was gifted a few years back now."

He, relieved by her easy acceptance of the term of endearment, arched his eyebrows. "Yeah," he readily agreed. That stuff was absolutely disgusting.

"And yet you somehow succeeded in keeping a straight face while drinking that bloody distasteful concoction," she quipped.

He shot his unofficial adoptive mother a cheeky grin. "Years of practice, Ma. Years of practice. I had to get through all those cups of Lapsang Souchong somehow."

Hetty rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation, her blue eyes brimming with mirth and a warmth that echoed through the office. "Don't be cheeky." He just kept looking at her with the same cheeky grin. "Though… I know you prefer the Darjeeling."

They both sat in comfortable silence for a moment and then Hetty raised her tumbler, a twinkle in her eyes. "To understanding, forgiveness, and the strength to weather the storms that life throws at us."

Callen clinked his tumbler against hers, a genuine smile breaking through as he did so. "To family, in all its complicated glory."

Chapter 62: Morning Surprises, Evening Reunions

The Saturday morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow as Callen and Anna sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the breakfast sandwiches that his wife had grabbed for them from Eggslut. The air carried the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee as well, Callen feeling glad that he was able to share these little moments with Anna.

Anna set her sandwich down on her plate, her eyes flickering with mixed excitement and nervousness. "So, there's something exciting I need to tell you." She then took a deep breath, her hand moving to her stomach. "We're going to have a baby."

Callen's eyes widened in surprise, a mix of emotions crossing his face as he processed Anna's news. His mind was racing with memories of his own fractured childhood and dreams of what he'd get to do with his own kid. He blinked, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "You're pregnant?" His voice carried a mix of disbelief and happiness.

“Six weeks,” she confirmed with a small nod.

"Wow,” he said, a little stunned. He then reached across the table and took Anna's hand. "I, uh, didn't see that coming, but that’s amazing."

Anna's eyes instantly lit up. "I was hoping you'd be excited," she said, relief evident in her voice. "I know that we didn't exactly plan on -"

"Excited doesn't even begin to cover it," he marvelled, grinning from ear to ear. I am going to be a father. I'm actually going to be a father! That thought was both thrilling and terrifying. His thoughts were racing through a maze of uncertainties and hopes as the weight of the word 'father' settled on his shoulders. "I can't believe we're actually gonna be parents."

"I know," she agreed, clearly sharing similar feelings to Callen's own. "And I couldn't imagine doing this with anyone else."

They continued discussing the pregnancy, namely how they wanted to handle people finding out, and then the conversation transitioned to Anna sharing a funny anecdote from her time growing up at the Institute of Noble Maidens.

Just as he started to share a story from his first day at Oakwood Secondary School at the tail end of the ninth grade, his phone buzzed. Grabbing it from his pocket, he saw Jethro Gibbs' name lighting up the screen.

Intrigued, he raised an eyebrow. "Hmm, it's Gibbs. Hope he's alright," he mused aloud before answering the call. The older man had been living up in Naktok Bay, Alaska for the better part of two years and so they hadn't talked much. Callen half expected it to be Gibbs' lady-friend Jack phoning to say Gibbs was ill or passed away.

As he put the cell phone up to his ear, the older man's familiar gruff voice came over the line. "Hey, Callen. It's been a while."

"Hey, Gibbs. Yeah, it has," he agreed. "Everything okay up in the igloo state?"

Gibbs let out a small chuckle, his words punctuated by a hint of nostalgia. 'Alaska's got its charms, but I think it's time to head back to D.C.'"

"Your old team will love that," he replied.

"Yeah," Gibbs agreed. "Anyway, I got some business in San Diego. Figured I'd try and catch up with ya while I'm down here."

He smirked and referenced an old inside joke of theirs from over the years. "No more BOLO in the park, though. My place this time."

Gibbs chuckled. "And it's about dang time, Kid. So, let's say for 1730?"

"Yeah," he happily agreed. "1730 tonight."

As Callen ended the call, he couldn't help but smile at the unexpected reunion with the older man. Anna, curious about the conversation, quirked an eyebrow, prompting him to quickly fill her in. "Gibbs is in town and wants to catch up," he explained.

His wife's eyes lit up with a mixture of interest and mirth. "So, I finally get to meet the man with the legendary stare and coffee obsession. Not to mention saving your butt in Moscow and Novi Sad."

"Hey, I returned the favour!" he replied with a small chuckle. "Anyway, I guess we're having him and his girlfriend Jack over for dinner tonight."

His wife gave him a warm smile. "Works for me."

After breakfast, he and Anna headed to the lively Venice Farmers Market, checking out the fresh produce and some of the craft stalls. As the pair browsed, they unexpectedly bumped into Anna's friend Stacy, who was chatting excitedly with her new boyfriend.

After a quick catch-up with her, he and Anna said goodbye to Stacy and her boyfriend, promising to meet up again soon for a bit of a double date.

With their purchases in tow, he and Anna swung by their house to drop everything off, Callen's phone lighting up with a text from his adoptive mother in Russian. 'Добрый день. Как ты сегодня, сын?' (Good afternoon. How are you today, Son?)

His lips curled into a smile, and he quickly switched his phone's keyboard to Russian before texting her back. 'Просто спокойный день, мама. А у тебя?' (Just a quiet day, Mom. How about you?)

A few seconds later, his phone buzzed. 'Спокойствие это хорошо. Я встречаюсь со старым другом. Есть планы на вечер?' (Quiet's good. I'm seeing an old friend. Any plans for the evening?)

Taking a seat down on their couch, he wrote back. 'Вообще-то, Гиббс присоединится к нам сегодня на ужин. Анна будет готовить.' (Actually, Gibbs is joining us for dinner tonight. Anna's cooking.)

Hetty's reply came through almost immediately. 'А, Гиббс. Немногословный человек. Надеюсь, вашей жене не придется вести весь разговор.' (Ah, Gibbs. A man of few words. I hope your wife won't have to carry the entire conversation.)

He rolled his eyes and fired off a retort. 'Не волнуйтесь. На всякий случай у меня в запасе последний номер Снайперский Ежемесячник.' (Don't worry. I got the latest issue of Sniper Monthly on standby, just in case.)

Callen's cell phone vibrated yet again. 'Снайперский Ежемесячник, Каллен? Я очень надеюсь, что ты не собираешься превращать свой ужин в тактический брифинг.' (Sniper Monthly, Callen? I certainly hope you're not planning on turning your dinner into a tactical briefing.)

He couldn't help but laugh. Hetty always had known how to crack him up. Shaking his head lightly with mirth, he texted back. 'Раньше это всегда помогало.' (Always worked for me before.)

A couple of seconds later, another text came through. 'Да, милый. В любом случае, приятного вам вечера. И передайте привет Гиббс и Анна.' (Indeed, Dear. In any case, enjoy your evening. And give my regards to Gibbs and Anna.)

Smiling sunnily, he sent off a reply. 'Передам привет. Завтра бранч?’ That had been a bit of a tradition of theirs back when he'd lived with her as a teen. And one that he really wouldn't mind getting back into. (Will do. Brunch tomorrow?)

His cell phone buzzed again almost instantly. 'Звучит восхитительно. Тогда увидимся утром.' (That sounds delightful. I shall see you in the morning then.)

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he joined his wife in the kitchen, where the enticing scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. As she poured their drinks, Anna couldn't help but glance at him with a playful curiosity. "Anyone interesting on the other end of those messages?" she asked, a teasing sparkle in her eyes.

He shot Anna a lopsided grin. "Just talking to Hetty."

A thoughtful expression crossed his wife's face. "You and Hetty seem to be in a much better place now," she remarked, her eyes meeting Callen's.

Callen nodded, a contemplative smile playing on his lips. "Yeah. I mean, our history's complicated, but she's family. We both want to move forward."

Anna, handing him one of the cups of coffee, leaned against the kitchen counter with a pleased smile. "Well, I, for one, am glad you two could work things out. I know Hetty cares for you, a lot."

"I know," he said with a small smile. "A part of me started to doubt it, but I've always known." He smiled wider. "And she told me."

Heading back out a little while later, they decided to go walk the Venice Canals. Callen happily snapped a picture of Anna with the canals as a backdrop, deciding to send it to Sam along with a short, light-hearted comment.

Feeling hungry, the pair then hit up Charlie's Deli for lunch. It wasn't quite as good as Brent's Deli in Callen's opinion but was still rather good. With sandwiches in hand, he and Anna walked back home as his wife wanted to get some things done at the house before they had company over that evening.

At half past five, there was a loud knock on the front door. Callen was in their bedroom - in the middle of plugging his cell phone into the charger beside his nightstand - just as Anna's voice drifted in from their kitchen. "Grisha, mozhesh' otkryt' dver'?" (Grisha, can you get that?)

"Da, ya otkroyu!" he called back. (Yeah, I'll get it!)

"Spasibo, milyy!" she replied gratefully. (Thanks, Babe!)

Walking over to the front door, he opened it up to see Gibbs standing there with Jack - whom Callen had work with once or twice back when she was stationed at the Marine Corps West Field Office. "Callen."

He dipped his head slightly, smiling warmly. "Gibbs." He then turned to the blonde and nodded again. "Jack."

Jack offered him a friendly smile. "Long time no see."

"Yeah, it's been a while." He stepped back inside and then gestured for Gibbs and Jack to follow him. "Come on in."

Anna shook the former Marine's hand, a warm smile gracing her lips. 'It's a pleasure to finally meet you both. Grisha has told me so much about you, Jethro." She turned and shook Jack's hand as well.

Gibbs, walking in, patted him on the shoulder. "Just the good stuff, I hope."

He chuckled and eyed his long-time friend. "Only the highlights, Jethro. You know how it is."

Anna led them to the cozy living room. "Well, you're practically family," she said with a warm smile. "Family gossip and all."

Gibbs settled into the armchair while he and Anna got situated on the couch. The man then glanced around the room, taking the place in. "Nice place you two got here," he remarked, a hint of approval in his tone.

Anna nodded appreciatively. "Thank you." She then shot Callen a smirk. "My husband's still ever the minimalist, but we've made some concessions."

Gibbs let out a chuckle. "Well, minimalism does have its merits."

Jack rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. "You would agree, Mr. Two-Cabins."

He leaned back on the couch slightly. "So, what brings you two to town?"

"An old friend of mine from the West Field Office is getting married," Jack explained. "I came down for the wedding."

"And I got roped into being her plus one," Gibbs chimed in cheekily.

"Only here for a couple of days then we fly to D.C for my daughter Faith's baby shower," Jack explained. "Having twins, she's gonna need it."

Callen was a little surprised to learn that Jack was a mother but couldn't say he was all that shocked really given her disposition. "Twins, huh?" he replied. "That's great." And it was. Although, I would probably have a minor heart attack at learning that. I barely know how I'm going to manage one baby, let alone two.

"She must be so thrilled," his wife added.

"Absolutely over the moon," Jack confirmed with a proud smile. "She and her husband Daniel had been trying for, well, quite a while."

They all prattled on for another couple of minutes before finally making their way to the dining area to sit down and have dinner. Anna carried the plates to the kitchen table, and he followed with several beers.

As usual, his wife had completely outdone herself in the kitchen; Anna honestly was a great cook. Anna had made them Solyanka Soup, Chicken Kotletki, Piroshki, a tomato and cucumber salad, as well as some Vareniki for dessert.

Jack dipped her spoon into the Solyanka Soup, and after a taste, her eyes widened in delight. "Wow, this soup is something else. Seriously, it's amazing."

Gibbs nodded in agreement. "Impressive cookin', Anna."

"Thank you both," his wife replied, beaming. "It's a family recipe." Anna's mother Yulia had taught her quite a few family recipes before passing away.

"Well, it turned out great!" Jack assured her. "I'm starting to think I should crash more dinner parties around here."

Callen nodded, leaning over and placing a light kiss on Anna's cheek. "Pretty sure that I married one of the best chefs in L.A. "

Anna gave a playful hum and laughed. "Good answer," she replied. "You might be just a little biased, though, Husband of Mine."

Jack chuckled and eyed Gibbs. "Take notes, Cowboy. 'Cause that was smooth."

Their evening continued with laughter, shared stories, and the warmth of camaraderie filling the home. He felt a sense of contentment and peace he hadn't thought possible for a lot of his life. His mind flickered back to Pembrook's advice: "Don't make your life be just about the past. Let it be about the present and... and now, the future."

A small part of him was scared to just let himself relax and enjoy the moment, but he pushed it down as quickly as it came up. Maybe I can finally do that.

Chapter 63: Echoes in Reseda

Hetty, who had arrived at OSP early, was sitting in her office typing furiously and, if Callen was any judge, in another language. There was something to the cadence of her typing that didn't feel the same as when Hetty was writing in English. He couldn't quite pin down which language though just from listening from the entrance.

Callen was certain Hetty could've done so, though, if their positions were reversed and she was the one observing him instead. It was just one of the many things that made his adoptive mother both formidable and utterly incomparable.

"Yes, Callen?" she inquired, glancing up from her laptop.

He stepped into the office, coming to a stop in front of Hetty's desk. The faint aroma of chrysanthemum tea and wolfberries lingered in the air, creating a familiar and comforting backdrop to their conversation. "So, Greek or Czech?" he asked with a small smile.

"Polish," Hetty stated simply. She shut her laptop, giving Callen her undivided attention. "Potrzebujesz czegoś?" (Did you need something?)

Callen gave a slight shake of the head. "Nie," he replied, easily making the switch to Polish as well. "Zaraz pójdę na siłownię spotkać się z Samem żeby trenować, właściwie." (No. I'm about to go meet Sam in the gym to train, actually.)

Hetty nodded, a hint of approval shinning in her dark brown eyes. "Dobrze," she said. "Ćwiczenia są kluczowe dla utrzymania przewagi, przecież." (Good. Exercise is crucial for maintaining one's edge, after all.)

"To prawda," he agreed. Callen tilted his head slightly. "Więc, mały ptaszek powiedział mi że admirał zeszłej nocy leciał z powrotem do Waszyngtonu?” (Very true. So, a little birdie told me that the Admiral flew back to Washington last night?)

"Tak," his adoptive mother confirmed. "Ma tam interesy którymi musi się zająć." (Yes. He has some business that needs attending to there.)

"Kiedy wróci?" he inquired. (When will he be back?)

"Twoje przypuszczenie jest równie dobre jak moje," she stated quite matter-of-factly. "Wierzę jednak, że Hollace zamierza wrócić tam na stałe, aby być blisko syna. Nigdy nie zamierzał mieszkać w Los Angeles na stałe." (Your guess is as good as mine. I do believe, however, that he intends to permanently move back there to be close to his son. He never intended to make Los Angeles a permanent stay.)

Callen gave a little snort. "Tak, to było oczywiste od pierwszego dnia." (Yeah, that has been obvious from day one.)

Hetty chuckled, more than familiar with how outspoken Admiral Kilbride could be. "Oh, nie mam co do tego wątpliwości." (Oh, of that I have no doubt.)

"Tak," he replied, thinking of the Admiral's numerous complaints about the city. "Przy okazji, Kensi i Deeks chcą zrobić grilla na plaży w sobotę. Idziesz? W końcu poznasz Rosa." (Yeah. By the way, Kensi and Deeks want to do a beach barbecue on Saturday. You in? You'll finally get to meet Rosa.)

Hetty considered the offer for a moment. "Być może pojawię się na krótko," she said, giving him a cheeky smile. "Aby utrzymać zespół w napięciu." (I might make a brief appearance; keep the team on their toes.)

"Nie mogę się doczekać," he replied. "Powinienem się zbierać zanim Sam pomyśli że znowu opuściłem go na siłowni. Wiesz jaki jest Duży Facet." Sam was of the mind that you should show up at least fifteen minutes early. Callen didn't adhere to the `Early is on time, on time is late' philosophy himself but had learned early on that it was one of the quickest ways to get under the former SEAL's skin. (Looking forward to it. I should probably get going before Sam thinks I've deserted him in the gym again. You know how the Big Guy gets.)

Hetty chuckled, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Rzeczywiście, punktualność jest nie lada cnotą w świecie Sama." (Indeed, punctuality is quite the virtue in Sam's world.)

Taking his leave, Callen started making his way to the gym for his sparring session with his partner. The familiar loud thud of a well-placed kick on a punching bag sounded in the air as he finally walked in.

His partner glanced over from the punching bag, a raised eyebrow greeting him. "Took you long enough," Sam remarked.

"Was talking to Hetty," he replied with a smirk. "So, you ready to throw down?" Callen started putting his things into his locker.

Sam grinned, gloves still on. "Always. Let's see if you've still got those moves, G."

The sparring session kicked off, a silent exchange of calculated moves. The sound of impacts echoed in the gym, punctuated by the occasional grunt. The two field agents focused on their techniques, pushing each other to the limit.

Midway through their tense sparring session, Callen's phone started vibrating audibly in his gym locker. Walking over to the locker, he checked his phone to find a message from the Operations Centre lighting up the small screen. He turned toward Sam. "It's from Ops," he explained. "Just caught a case."

He and Sam quickly made their way upstairs to the Operations Centre, the room tense as they walked in. Callen was a little surprised to see that Agent Castor was there, but it wasn't the first time they had borrowed him. Hetty acknowledged their arrival with a nod before turning to Fatima. "Ms. Namazi, play the surveillance footage if you would."

The Operations Centre fell silent except for the CCTV footage playing which showed a female Lieutenant, clad in a Navy Service Uniform, being grabbed by a pair of masked men and shoved into the back of a grey van.

Unfortunately, although the victim managed to rip off one of the perpetrator's masks, the person in question successfully got back inside the van, the driver speeding away, without giving them a clear shot of his face.

"Lieutenant Savannah Lawson went missing yesterday morning," Hetty informed them. "She was heading up a highly classified assignment called Project Horizon." She turned to address Deeks and Castor. "Her commanding officer is on the way to the Boatshed as we speak to brief you pair. I need you looking into the abduction."

"What about us?" Sam asked, voicing what Callen was also thinking.

"You two are being assigned to a PSO," Hetty explained as Kensi pulled up a photo of a civilian man up on the big screen. A Personal Security Operation? Why? "Keith Mercer, aged sixty-one. Widowed a year ago."

Callen's eyes locked onto the image, a jolt of recognition slicing through him as a tide of memories washed over him. He'd lived with the man and his wife for a month and a half when he was thirteen and it had been rough. He clenched his jaw, determined to keep his emotions in check. Come on, man. Control your emotions! It was years ago. You're not that helpless little kid anymore. Get over it.

"Mr. Mercer is a civilian contractor who's been working as a Data Analyst on Project Horizon," Hetty continued, seemingly unaware of the internal conflict that Callen was currently facing. "Early this morning, his house in Oxnard was shot up. As such, he's been taken into protective custody by OPD." He and Sam both nodded, knowing that Hetty wasn't done talking yet. "I'm also standing Agents Rountree and Namazi down for the day in preparation for relief duty tonight."

Rountree and Fatima both nodded in understanding.

"What safe house are we using?" he asked, pleased that he was able to keep most of the anxiety he was feeling out of his voice.

"Point Echo," Hetty replied matter-of-factly.

He dipped his head slightly. That house is pretty easy to secure, thankfully. "Alright." He turned to Sam. "Let's go, Partner."

As they drove out to Oxnard to pick up their protectee, Callen couldn't quite shake the memories resurfacing from his past encounter with Keith Mercer. He sat there staring out the passenger side window at the passing city lights. The rhythmic hum of the car provided a backdrop for the intense thoughts swirling in his mind.

He'd run away almost twenty-four hours ago but found himself being escorted right back to the foster home he'd run away from. One of the officers knocked on the front door and it opened a moment later, his foster father storming out.

"G. Callen!" Mr. Mercer said. "Do you know how much trouble you've caused?!"

Callen quickly grabbed his backpack from the back of the patrol car and held it tight, avoiding eye contact, and muttered a half-hearted, "Sorry."

His foster father grabbed Callen tight by the shoulder and marched him up the driveway, clearly wanting to take the conversation behind closed doors.

"Hey!" the officer called. "Be gentle with him, he might need to see a doctor. He was in a scrap with two other kids when I found him."

His foster father's hand tightened even as his voice softened. "Are you alright, G?" the man asked, doing his best to look concerned.

"I'm fine," he lied. He knew full well that anything else would have gotten him in even more trouble than he no doubt already was. At least his foster father wasn't drunk at the moment, he would've been even worse.

"Good," his foster father replied, still putting on an act. Mr. Mercer then took him inside and as soon as the door slammed shut shot him a dirty look. "You pull anything like that ever again, you little shit, and you'll regret it."

He shuffled in place slightly. "I'm sorry, sir."

"That's all you ever say, you little brat!" his foster father said. "No wonder even your own parents didn't want your sorry ass. You're nothing but a troublemaker." Glancing at his watch, the man scowled at Callen. "Get yourself ready for school. Maybe you'll finally learn something at that special needs place of yours. Though, I highly doubt it. You're a lost cause, unable to even read right."

Callen took a deep breath, the frustration and anger bubbling beneath the surface. The insult about the special needs school stung, not because it held any truth, but because it was a reminder of the false narrative he had to maintain for Drona. He clutched his backpack tighter, the weight of the cover story heavier than ever. Callen didn't really have Dyslexia but as far as everyone outside of his training program was concerned, he did. And that made Callen the foster kid too stupid to even read. He then nodded, not wanting to say anything to make matters worse.

"And don't bother Denise or the other kids," his foster father snapped before physically shooing Callen away. "I don't need you causing even more issues."

Sam's voice cut through his musings, the man's gaze briefly shifting from the road to his very quiet partner. "You good, G?"

"I'm fine," he replied almost reflexively, not eager to delve into it just yet. He knew it was just delaying the inevitable but he needed a moment to process things and figure out how to convince Hetty to not pull him from the case.

Arriving at the OPD's Southwinds Park precinct, Callen and Sam coordinated with the officers to pick up Keith Mercer. The station's atmosphere buzzed with activity as they navigated through the corridors to locate Mercer, who was waiting in a small interview room toward the back of the building.

Spotting his former foster father, his step faltered slightly. Mercer was a bigger man and seemed to move with the fluid grace of a man half his age. Callen did not doubt that the man could still easily put up a fight.

He quickly flashed his NCIS shield as he approached the man. "Mr. Mercer, I'm Special Agent Grisha Callen," he said, deliberately using his diminutive first name. Callen then gestured to Sam. "And this is my partner, Sam Hanna. NCIS."

"We're here to take over your protection detail," his partner added, quickly shoving his own badge back into his pocket.

"Callen," Mercer repeated, giving Callen a once over. There was a glint of recognition in his eyes. Mercer then pointed at him. "I remember you."

Sam discreetly raised an eyebrow, silently questioning the connection between Callen and Mercer. Well, I knew I couldn't put it off forever.

"You're that special needs kid my wife and I fostered years ago," the man continued, seemingly oblivious to Callen's unease. "You were always coming home from school banged up after a fight. Ran away at one point."

Callen gave the man a tight-lipped smile, doing his best to mask his discomfort. "Yep, that's me. Long time, no see, Mr. Mercer."

His partner jumped in smoothly, thankfully redirecting the conversation. "We need to get going, get you to a safe house as quickly as possible."

As they escorted Mercer out of the police station, his mind was still racing slightly. He did his best to push it down, however, fully aware that he needed to focus on the task at hand. Don't feel; it's just a state of mind.

Arriving at Point Echo, one of the safe houses nestled in Reseda, he and Sam swiftly ushered Mercer inside, carefully securing all the rooms, windows, and doors. The duo then gave their protectee a quick rundown of all pertinent safety procedures.

Callen glanced down at his wristwatch, already looking forward to when the relief team took over for the night. This is going to be a really, really long day. "Stay away from windows, and if you hear anything suspicious, let us know immediately. Understood?"

Mercer nodded curtly, a hint of impatience in the man's demeanour. "I get it. Just find out who's after me, so I can get back to my life," the man demanded.

"We're on it," his partner assured Mercer.

His former foster father eyed him with a smug grin. "So, spill it, G. How'd a special needs kid like you end up with a badge? They just handing those out these days?"

Callen's jaw tensed, the insult cutting deeper than he expected.

Before he could reply, Sam stepped forward, a stern look on his face. "Watch your tone, Mr. Mercer. Agent Callen earned that badge through hard work and sacrifice. He's saved more lives than you can possibly imagine. He's one of the best agents I know and doesn't need to prove himself to anyone. Show some respect."

Mercer leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. "Saved lives, huh?" The man turned to Callen. "What, did you play a hero in some action movie?"

Callen, despite the simmering irritation, maintained his composure. "Mr. Mercer, right now, our priority is ensuring your safety. We can discuss personal matters later." He took a deliberate breath. "We need you to cooperate, follow our instructions, and let us do our jobs. The more you help us, the faster we can end this."

As Mercer huffed in response, he exchanged a knowing look with Sam. We're in for a very long day.

After Mercer went to the main bathroom to freshen up, Callen and Sam kept watch in the living room. The soft hum of the air conditioning unit provided a backdrop for the silence that was lingering between them.

As the water started running in the main bathroom, Sam seized the chance to have a discussion he no doubt felt was long overdue. Sam eyed him, a serious expression on his face. "Real talk, G. What's the story with Mercer?"

Callen met Sam's gaze, the weight of the memories pressing in on him. "He was my foster father for a short time when I was a kid. Didn't end well." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It's complicated, Sam."

Sam nodded, understanding the sensitivity of the topic. "Complicated like a typical G. Callen situation, huh?"

A hint of a smile played on his lips. "Yeah, something like that."

"So, just how bad did it get?" his partner prodded, clearly not intending to simply drop the subject like Callen would've preferred

Deciding to trust his partner, Callen surprised himself by actually starting to open up. "I was thirteen." It was soft, a muffled statement that barely made its way past the hand that he'd been rubbing across his face, but it was a good start. "It was one of those homes where they took in kids for the money, not 'cause they cared." He gave a derisive snort. "As it turns out, you get a higher board rate for a kid with disabilities, like Dyslexia. If he barely tolerated me sober, he definitely didn't after a few drinks."

His partner nodded, acknowledging what Callen was telling him, but didn't speak.

He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on a distant memory. "He'd starve me, lock me in the garage for hours, and the physical abuse... it got bad." He'd never understood why Denise hadn't tried to step in or help.

Sam's expression tightened, anger flickering in the man's eyes. "Why didn't you say something back in Ops when you recognized him?"

"I didn't want anyone's pity, especially not yours," he admitted, his tone a mixture of vulnerability and the usual self-reliance. "And I really don't want Hetty to take me off of this case. I need this, Sam."

"And I'm guessing you never told anyone what really happened," Sam stated. It was a statement, not a question. "Not about the school or that house."

He shook his head. "No." And it's not like anybody would've believed me about Drona, anyway. It sounds like a bad sci-fi movie.

"I don't get how people like that ever get to be foster parents," Sam said with a shake of the head. "You didn't deserve any of that, G."

"It's fine, Sam," he said, meeting his partner's eyes. "It was a long time ago. It's a bit weird seeing Mercer again, is all."

Sam placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. "I've got your back, G. No matter what. But we're gonna have to let Hetty in on this."

Callen managed a small, appreciative smile, grateful for the unspoken understanding between him and his long-time partner. "I know."

Sam's hand remained on Callen's shoulder, a silent pledge of support as he pulled out his phone, dialling their Operations Manager's number with a determined look. Once the call connected, the former SEAL handed the cell phone to Callen, who took a deep breath before speaking into the device. "Hetty, it's Callen. There's something you need to know about the asset."

He knew he had to tell her, he just hoped he'd be able to convince her to let him stay on the case. To let him show Mercer that he was more than what the man thought. I'm not that helpless, scared kid anymore.

Chapter 64: Owls, Swans, and Survival

Callen didn't have to wait long for his adoptive mother's response. Hetty's calm voice resonated through the phone as she replied. "I see. And what exactly is it I need to be apprised of, Mr. Callen?"

Callen took a steadying breath, choosing his words carefully. "The asset and I have a history. He was my foster father for a time when I was a teenager." He sighed. "It's complicated."

There was a brief pause on the other end, and then Hetty, ever composed, spoke. "I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Callen. However, you know the importance of maintaining focus on the mission. Emotions can cloud judgment. I trust you to handle this, but if your personal history starts to jeopardize the case, I will have to make adjustments."

"I understand, Hetty," he replied with a determined tone. "I won't let it affect the job. Mercer needs protection, and we need to find out who's after him. I know that."

Hetty's voice carried a warning edge. "Precisely, Mr. Callen. And to that end, should I receive any indication otherwise, I will have to take the necessary measures."

"Of course," he replied. "I get it, Hetty."

"I do too, Mr. Callen," she said. "More than you realize."

The call ended, leaving Callen with a sense of relief. As he handed his partner back his cell phone, he exchanged a glance with Sam, a shared understanding passing between them. It came easily after so many years of partnership.

As lunchtime rolled around, the safe house settled into a temporary calm. Sam found himself alone in the small kitchen with Mercer, both making sandwiches. Callen was patrolling while Sam whipped up an easy lunch for the both of them.

Admittedly, Callen was grateful for the temporary reprieve and sent off a quick text to his wife to check in and see how her day was going. Mercer had kept the worst of his comments to himself since the initial stream of remarks but being in the same room as the man still made his skin crawl somewhat.

In any case, the peace didn't last very long. As Sam and Mercer made lunch, Callen couldn't help but overhear snippets of their conversation from his position near the kitchen. The air in the house seemed to grow tense as Mercer seized the opportunity to yet again criticize his former foster child.

"So, Agent Hanna," Mercer continued, his tone laced with a smug undertone, "what's it like working with a partner who's... special needs? I mean, Callen, the guy can't even read properly. It's a liability for the team, don't you think?"

Sam's expression tightened, his jaw clenching, and he shot a glance towards the direction of Callen's patrol route. Unbeknownst to both men, Callen stood just out of sight, overhearing Mercer's derogatory comments.

"I'd watch yourself, Mr. Mercer," Sam replied with a rather clipped tone. "We are both here to protect you, but that doesn't mean I'll tolerate disrespect towards my partner. You don't even know him."

"Let's be real here, Agent Hanna. Dyslexia's a serious handicap," Mercer stated. "How does he even manage to do his job effectively?"

His frustration flared at the memory of the fabricated Dyslexia diagnosis forced upon him by the Drona Project. I know how to do my job! Damn well, too! He never even gave me half a chance growing up.

"Callen's one of the best agents I've ever worked with," Sam countered. "He has saved lives, including mine, more times than I can count."

Mercer laughed condescendingly, unaware that Callen was within earshot. "Sure, sure. But let's not pretend it doesn't affect his performance. How does he even keep up with the team? Handle any of the reports?"

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, before entering the kitchen. He wasn't going to give Mercer the satisfaction of seeing him upset. He then stepped into the kitchen, his expression calm. "Did I hear someone questioning my ability to handle reports?" He shot Mercer a cocky grin. "Just so you know, I can not only handle case reports just fine, but I can do so fluently in several languages."

Mercer's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at Callen, seemingly caught off guard by that little revelation. Good, you bigot.

The confidence in Callen's demeanour grew and he continued. "Yeah, I've got a knack for languages, it turns out. It comes in handy when dealing with international cases. I tested out of Special Ed. in the ninth grade as a matter of fact."

Mercer immediately gave him a derisive snort. "Now why don't I believe that?"

Ignoring Mercer's skepticism, Callen continued, "Believe what you want, Mercer. The bottom line is, I'm damn good at my job and you need me and my team's help right now. But hey, if you wanna take your chances…"

Callen's eyes locked onto Mercer's, a challenge in his gaze. Sam stood silently by, his expression a mix of pride and mild apprehension.

Mercer scoffed, unmoved. "Don't play tough, kid. Don't forget, this is me you're talking to. I know you; who you are. What you are."

Callen started breathing deeply, keeping himself calm. "You didn't even really know me back then, Mercer. Besides… I'm not a kid anymore." Locking eyes with the protectee, he added, "You need our protection, so let's just focus on that."

Mercer grunted but fell silent, seemingly choosing not to push further for the moment.

As lunch proceeded in an uneasy quiet, Callen focused on Sam who broke the silence, pulling him into some friendly banter and helping him relax.

As lunch concluded, the trio returned to their respective tasks. He and Sam resumed their patrol and Mercer reclined on the couch, flipping through several photos they'd been sent from Ops a few minutes prior.

The remainder of the afternoon dragged on, the tension in the safe house beginning to dissipate. Callen and Sam maintained their vigilance, ensuring the security of Mercer, who was being a bit less outright offensive.

In the late afternoon, as the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the safe house in shadows, Deeks and Castor called again, giving them an update. Hetty then took over the call and Callen stepped down the hall for some privacy.

Hetty's sharp gaze seemed to pierce through the phone as she asked, "Mr. Callen, how is the situation unfolding? Any complications?"

Callen relayed the events of the day, including Mercer's antagonistic behaviour and the shift after he took the man to task. That, unfortunately, they weren't able to get any useful information from the asset. She listened intently, her response measured. "Mr. Callen, I trust your ability to handle such challenges. However, if you would like to be partnered with Castor for the intern, I would understand."

He gave a small sigh. "No, Hetty, it's fine. I think he got the point, anyway."

"If you're sure," Hetty replied. "I have no problem with you standing down."

"I'm sure," he replied. "It's fine, Hetty, really."

As the night draped the safe house in shadows, Callen and Sam, weary from hours of keeping watch, welcomed the arrival of their relief team. The door creaked open, and in stepped Fatima and Rountree, ready to take over the night shift.

"Hey, you two! How's everything been?" Fatima asked, smiling warmly.

He dipped his head slightly. "Quiet for the most part."

"But Mercer's a real piece of work," Sam remarked with a wry smile.

"Thanks for the heads up," Rountree stated.

As Callen and Sam got ready to take off, Fatima caught Callen's eye and signalled for a quick chat. "There anything specific we should be aware of with Mercer?"

"He's got history with me," he replied matter-of-factly. "Foster father from when I was a kid. Let's just say he isn't a fan." His expression shifted slightly. "You two should be fine though. Don't worry about it."

Fatima nodded, her expression understanding. "Got it, Callen. We'll take it from here. You and Sam go home and get some rest."

As he and Sam finally made their way out of the safe house, the night air was cool and refreshing. The tension started to fade, replaced by a sense of accomplishment for managing a challenging situation. They walked out to the Challenger in companionable silence, the weight of the day lifting with each step.

Driving back to the Office of Special Projects, Sam broke the silence. "You know… You handled Mercer pretty well back there, G."

He dipped his head slightly. "Thanks, Partner. Just had to set some boundaries."

"He's lucky you didn't knock some sense into him," his partner replied bluntly.

He smirked. "Believe me, I was really tempted to."

"And what was with him calling you special needs?" Sam inquired. "That some Drona thing? I didn't wanna ask in front of him."

"The C.I.A's cover story," he explained. "Officially, I attended the Drona Learning Centre in Cypress Park and was diagnosed with Dyslexia. I told you about getting pulled out of class when I was eight to do remedial exercises and stuff, didn't I?"

"Yeah, for the initial intelligence screening," Sam said, recalling the discussion. "Guess I just didn't realize your foster parents were being told it too." The former Navy SEAL's expression shifted. "That's pretty messed up, G. Using a disability like that."

"It served its purpose," he said before glancing out the passenger side window at the scenery they were speeding past. It wasn't exactly pleasant thinking back to his time in the C.I.A's very dehumanizing training program but as they drove through the city, memories of his alma mater echoed in his mind.

Standing beneath a canopy on a large ranch just off of Ernest E. Debs Regional Park, Mr. Pembrook, clipboard in hand, stood and watched a sizeable gathering of Drona Subjects as they got off the yellow bus. It was adorned with 'Drona Learning Centre' across the side and a charming logo - a brown cartoon owl happily reading a book.

As everybody gathered out on the grass, Mr. Pembrook eyed them. "Line up, quickly!" the man ordered. "Owls on the left, swans on the right." The command echoed across the open space the Outdoor Survival class has come to for a rare field trip.

As soon as their head teacher gave the order, the entire cohort immediately complied. Twelve-year-old Callen, trying to move swiftly and avoid colliding with any of the other subjects, made his way to the group of boys forming on the left. The air was charged with a mix of anticipation and curiosity even as they all stood in orderly rows on the grass.

Mr. Pembrook's eyes scanned the group as he began pairing them up with a sense of purpose. "Subject Twelve, partner with Subject Six. Subject One, you're with Thirteen. Sixteen, you're with Twenty-Four," the teacher announced. "Subject Four, you're with Nine. Subject Twenty-Three, you're with Five."

As their head teacher continued with the pairings, Callen found himself partnered with Subject Two, a Hispanic girl. He and Subject Two both acknowledged the pairing with a small nod before refocusing on the ongoing directions. After which, the group started to disperse into the picturesque surroundings of the property, each pair given a set of tasks to complete.

Their first challenge involved setting up a makeshift shelter. Callen and Subject Two, armed with limited supplies, started trying to build a Lean-to Shelter. "I don't think we're making this shelter sturdy enough," he said before pointing at one of the poles. "Move that branch forward a bit."

"Alright," Subject Two said with a small nod, moving the branch like Callen had asked. "Go find some more wood, Seventeen. I'll shift the rest of this over."

"Alright," he agreed, turning to leave. "I guess I'll be right back then."

As he gathered branches, the air buzzed with the murmur of distant streams and the occasional rustle of leaves. Returning to the site, be found Subject Two still diligently adjusting their shelter. He placed the newly gathered wood on the ground and started helping her, the shelter already seeming much more stable.

As the Lean-to Shelter really took shape, Mr. Pembrook made his way over. The head teacher scrutinized his and Subject Two's Lean-to Shelter. After a moment of silence, Mr. Pembrook spoke. "Not bad, Seventeen and Two. Your structure shows promise."

As their head teacher praised their shelter, Callen's shoulders relaxed slightly. It was never a good thing to disappoint Mr. Pembrook. A small smile flickered across his face, a brief moment of pride before he buried it.

He and Subject Two mumbled a quick, "Thank you, sir."

As Mr. Pembrook moved on to assess other pairs, Callen overheard the head teacher chastising another pair a short distance away who were struggling a bit with their A-frame shelter. "One and Thirteen, this is hardly a shelter. It's more like a gathering of twigs. You might as well invite the elements in. Redo it, now."

As the pair scrambled to fix their mistakes, Callen shared a glance with Subject Two. Seeing Mr. Pembrook walk over to another pair, a nagging thought crossed his mind. Why do we gotta be numbers? Why can't I just be me, G?

Back in the present, Sam started playing one of his favourite jazz songs, pulling Callen from his musings. With the familiar notes of jazz filling the vehicle, he felt a sense of grounding. The rhythmic patterns seemed to sweep away the lingering tension from the day. It's over. I survived. I'm not that helpless kid anymore.

Chapter 65: Runs, Bagels, and Unspoken Histories

Callen and Anna hit the pavement for their morning run, the sun just beginning to rise. Jogging side by side, they weaved through the awakening neighbourhoods. The crisp morning air carried hints of dew, and the distant hum of waking city life accompanied their chitchat. Thankfully, Anna's morning sickness had been fairly minimal so far. It did feel weird to keep the pregnancy from everyone but they both wanted to wait until after the first trimester when the risk of miscarriage was lower before telling anyone. So, they were putting it off for a little bit longer.

He found running was also helping him clear his head after tossing and turning most of the night before, memories of his youth plaguing his sleep.

They ran five miles and then as they neared the small bakery that Anna liked, they ran in to grab some bagels and drinks before heading back home. Sunlight spilled into the kitchen, casting a warm glow on the table where they had just sat down. Digging into their breakfast, the conversation shifting to travelling.

Anna happily shared a couple of anecdotes about some of her travels before turning it back on him. "So, if you could revisit any place, not on some mission, where would it be?" Anna inquired with a raised eyebrow.

Callen took a thoughtful sip of his coffee, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. "I guess I'd go back to Tel Aviv," he admitted, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Every time I go back, even if it has been for work, I like it more. Nicer than Santa Monica, frankly."

"Tel Aviv, huh?" Anna replied, savouring a bite of her bagel. "And here I was expecting you to say somewhere like Prague."

He grinned, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Prague does have its charms as well. I could be convinced to go," he quipped.

Anna chuckled. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind then," she said with a wry smile.

As they finished their meal, he glanced at the time and realized they needed to get ready for the day. He had a protection detail to resume and Anna had to get to court soon to testify for one of her cases. Sam should be here any minute.

He and Anna quickly cleaned up, their morning routine an easy dance of shared tasks. As they parted ways for the day, Callen couldn't resist placing a gentle kiss on Anna's forehead. "See you tonight," he said, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"See you tonight," she replied with a matching smile. "Watch your six."

"I always do," he swiftly assured her.

After their brief yet affectionate goodbye, he headed to the curb to wait for Sam, who pulled up in his Challenger just as Callen opened the front door. The pair talked about nothing really in particular, mainly listening to Sam's latest jazz favourites, all the way to the safe house in Reseda.

Arriving at Point Echo, he and Sam started to smoothly take over the protection detail from Fatima and Rountree, strategically positioning themselves so all areas were covered but they could still have a bit of a group discussion.

"Any updates on the threat assessment?" Callen queried, his gaze moving between the two junior members of his team.

"None," Rountree said, clearly glad his shift was over. "And believe me, it was quiet all night."

"Deeks and Castor called a couple minutes ago to say they got a lead they're following up on," Fatima added. "They didn't say what it was though."

Sam gave a little shrug. "They'll tell us if it pans out. We've all got things we work on before bothering the team with it. It was quiet though?"

"Yeah," Fatima confirmed. "Although, Tree here ended up showing off his love and deep, deep knowledge of Disney musicals most of the night."

Callen grinned, having done something similar on a business road trip with Anna a while back. In his case, it had been the score from Grease, but still. "Nothing wrong with a good musical, Fatima."

Mercer clearly couldn't resist taking a shot at him. "Musicals, Callen? Seriously, you're into that Broadway crap?" he said with a condescending smile.

"You can't go wrong with Aladdin or Beauty and the Beast," Fatima said with a smile, backing them up.

"Yeah but Raya and the Last Dragon," Rountree added, "that is literally fire."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Between Kam and G here, I have the whole dang soundtrack to both Moana and Grease memorized."

Callen smirked. "Used it to annoy Tobias Thoma on the drive back down from Arizona with Anna. The guy's reaction was priceless."

Wrapping up the briefing, Rountree and Fatima headed out, needing to swing by OSP quickly before heading home to get some rest. Sam tried questioning Mercer again to see if the man remembered anything about the shooting but had once again come up with nothing. Meanwhile, he kept patrolling the premises, preferring to only talk to Mercer when strictly necessary.

At a quarter to twelve, his phone started to vibrate, Kensi's name and picture flashing on the screen. Hoping it was good news, he answered the call. "Hey, Kens."

"Hey, Callen!" she replied. "Just talked to Deeks and we may have something. Sending over photos of the suspects for Mercer to go through."

"Alright," he said. "Thanks, Kens. I'll be in touch."

As the photos of the potential suspects appeared on his phone, Callen started showing them to Mercer, Sam watching from the man's his shoulder. "Recognize any of them?" he asked once they were a few photos in.

His former foster father shook his head. "Nope, not in the slightest."

As Mercer continued scrolling through the array of faces on Callen's phone, the older man's brow was furrowed in concentration. Callen figured that it was going to be yet another dead end until a subtle shift in Mercer's expression caught his attention. The tightness in Mercer's jaw eased, replaced by a glimmer of realization. Mercer stopped at a particular photo, his eyes lingering on a brunet man who had to be in his thirties.

"You know him?" his partner asked, noticing the same shift in body language.

"Sean Peterson," Mercer muttered in confirmation, his tone betraying a mix of surprise and unease. "We have... history."

"Like you and I have a history?" he snapped, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice as he did so. I'm guessing you abused him too, didn't you?

"Yeah," Mercer reluctantly admitted. "We fostered him for about seven months."

"Go call Deeks," Sam's voice cut through the tension, his eyes never leaving Mercer. "Tell him we might have a lead and need Peterson brought in for questioning."

Callen nodded, swiftly dialling Deeks' number. As the phone was ringing, Sam decided to press Mercer for more information. "Tell me everything you know about Peterson," he demanded, his tone giving no room for argument.

Mercer sighed. "We started fostering Sean when he was fourteen," he said. "Troubled kid with ADHD. We could hardly go a day without getting a phone call from his school about some sort of incident."

He arched a brow, taking that description with a grain of salt. Or you're exaggerating and he was acting out because you were abusing him.

Deeks finally picked up on the fourth ring. "Hey, Callen. What's up?"

"We may have a lead," he said. "Asset recognized a guy named Sean Peterson from the photo lineup. Suspect's a former foster kid of his. We need to bring him into the Boatshed for questioning."

"On it!" Deeks chirped. "Castor's getting the last-known address for him from Kensilina right now and we'll go pick him up."

"Thanks. Keep me posted." Ending the call, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and turned back to Mercer. "When's the last time you had contact with Peterson?" he probed, determined to get some answers.

"Has he made any attempts to contact you recently?" Sam asked.

Mercer hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor for a moment. "It's been years since I've seen him. Last contact I had with him was when his social worker came to take him to a new placement. He never made any attempts to reach out."

"You're sure?" he questioned, eyeing the older man. Not that I'm surprised he wanted nothing to do with you once he left.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Mercer said. "Him leaving was for the best. The kid had issues, and I had my hands full with other fosters."

Callen gave a small little hum. That sounds about right.

Sam folded his arms, maintaining a stern expression. "We need the full story, Mercer. If there's anything you're not telling us..."

Mercer sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice. "There's nothing else to tell. I haven't seen or heard from Sean in years. He was just another troubled kid we took in."

They talked for a while longer but managed to get nowhere with the man. Pushing his irritation down, he turned to Sam. There was definitely more to Mercer's story, but for now, they needed to focus on finding Sean Peterson. "I'm gonna go call Deeks and see where he and Castor are at with Peterson."

His partner nodded and he stepped away to make the call to Deeks, pacing a bit as he waited for an update. After several rings, Deeks picked up.

"We've got Peterson in custody," Deeks informed him. "Castor and I are heading back to the Boatshed with him as we speak."

"Sounds good," he replied, a subtle exhale of relief in his tone. Hopefully, we'll be able to close this case soon and be done with Mercer. "Any issues bringing him in?"

"None, Callen!" Castor chimed in. "He's cooperating."

"That's true," Deeks readily confirmed. "Though, he did say that whoever tried to take out the asset was doing everyone a favour."

"Alright," he replied, keeping his tone neutral. Mercer was never going to win Foster Father of the Year, that was sure. "Keep me posted."

Chapter 66: Brewed Confidences

The soft hum of the phone vibrating in Callen's pocket interrupted the rhythmic pacing he'd adopted while patrolling the safe house. He fished the phone out, noting Castor's photo and name on the caller I.D. As he brought the cell phone to his ear, he listened intently as the junior agent briefed him on Sean Peterson's interrogation.

"Hey, man. So, Peterson maintains he doesn't know anything about the threat against Mercer," Castor informed him. "Deeks thinks he might be holding back, though. We're pressing him for more information."

Callen's jaw subtly tightened. "Alright. Just keep pushing, but don't push too hard. We can't afford for him to lawyer up. Let me know if anything changes."

"Will do," Castor readily agreed.

Ending the call, he exchanged a glance with Sam, who had taken over patrol while he was on the phone. "Peterson's still not talking."

"Great," Sam said with a small sigh.

While Callen was making both himself and Sam a coffee a couple of minutes later, the team's comms crackled to life. "No updates on the threat assessment at the moment," Kensi remarked, "but Deeks and Castor are taking another shot at Peterson. I'm also looking at Peterson's financials. Found some irregularities – several large cash deposits and offshore transactions. File's on your way."

"Thanks, Kens." Taking his cell phone out, he went into his work e-mail, swiftly pulling up the files that she'd just sent him.

"Anything else you want us to be doing?" Kensi asked.

He took a short moment to think. "Keep looking into Peterson's background. See if you can find Deeks and Castor a way in," he said. "I also think we need to look further into if he and Mercer have crossed paths."

"We also can't ignore the strong possibility that Peterson has a partner," Sam added, talking over their comms.

"Copy that," Kensi replied before ending the call.

With that over, Callen started scanning the documents, looking for anything that might give them a direction for this case while Sam patrolled. Eventually, Callen addressed his team over the comm. "Hey, Kens, I might have something."

"What is it?" Sam inquired, walking over to him.

"Can someone fill me in?" Mercer asked.

"Look," he said, showing the document to Sam. "Peterson goes to Rock & Reilly's on Sunset several times a month. I think Deeks and Castor need to pay the place a visit, see if any of the pub's staff or other regulars know anything."

"Castor and I are heading there now," Deeks said, chiming in over their comms.

"Good," Sam said. "Keep us posted."

As the team's comms fell silent once more, Callen and Mercer headed to the kitchen to make some lunch while Sam patrolled the premises.

As they made an easy lunch, Mercer took a casual sip of his coffee before glancing at Callen. "So, kid, how exactly did you end up becoming a federal agent?"

Callen's gaze remained focused on what he was cutting as he replied, his tone terse, "Long story."

Mercer leaned against the kitchen counter. "I've got time."

Callen quirked a brow, a little annoyed the man didn't take the hint. Memories of past interactions with Mercer stirred a subtle discomfort within him. Callen wasn't eager to have a heart-to-heart with the man. You did nothing but demean me and treat me like crap. And you're still doing it.

Mercer rolled his eyes, brushing off Callen's annoyance. "Come on, kid. Quit being so dang uptight. We're stuck here waiting, so might as well make the time pass. And I'm genuinely curious. So, spill it."

He sighed, deciding to share a condensed version of his story. "Fine," he said. "Joined the Agency right after aging out of the system, wanted a fresh start." Even as Hetty had given him a home, he hadn't truly settled into it as a teen. Although, Callen had returned to the sizeable Hollywood residence on and off over the years. A pattern of running and being unable to settle down that had followed Callen through most of his adult life. "It's also my last foster mother's profession."

Mercer hummed and nodded thoughtfully. "I can respect that."

The kitchen fell back into a tangible silence as both men focused on their lunch, Callen not exactly comfortable with Mercer's attempts to get personal.

The wait seemed endless, but then Castor's voice cut through the tension. "Callen, we talked to one of the bartenders here. Turns out, Peterson comes here with his foster brother, Jacob Cabrera. Both guys have been having financial difficulties, but recently talked about coming into some cash."

The mention of the foster brother instantly sparked a theory in Callen's mind, a piece of the metaphorical puzzle finally slotting into place. "Look into Cabrera's properties," he directed, wanting Deeks and Castor to follow up on the new lead. "Sam suspected Peterson wasn't working alone. There might be something there."

As the two agents at Rock & Reilly's pursued the fresh angle, Callen and Sam's focus remained on the protection detail. The team's comms buzzed a while later with a new update for them, each piece of information a puzzle piece slotting into place.

"Cabrera recently inherited his aunt's place in El Sereno," Deeks said. "Kensi was able to get us a search warrant and we're headed there now."

"Good work," Sam said. "I assume Kensi's working on locating Cabrera?"

"A fool's bet," Kensi chimed in. "I contacted his work too. He's a mechanic at Huerta's Automotive in Boyle Heights. Boss said he's in today. Works until 1600."

Considering the potential risks involved and how stretched thin his team was right at the moment, he took a moment to strategize. "Sam, I need you to stay on the PSO. Keep an eye on the asset. I'm joining Castor at the El Sereno property." Callen played with his face slightly, recognizing the potential risk of Deeks being alone while picking up Cabrera. "Deeks, I need you to pick Cabrera up. Is Hetty there?"

His adoptive mother's voice came over the comms. "I'm here, Mr. Callen. Am I right in assuming you want an extra body to accompany Mr. Deeks?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "We have no idea which way this is going to go."

Nate's voice came over the line. "Hey, Callen. It's Nate. I just finished a meeting here. I can join Deeks for the pick-up."

He nodded, appreciating Nate's willingness to step in. "Alright. Thanks, Nate. Let me know when you have him in custody."

As he joined Castor at the El Sereno property, they cautiously approached the house, their service weapons drawn despite the knowledge that both Peterson and Cabrera were now safely in NCIS custody.

The craftsman bungalow, painted in muted green, seemed deceptively ordinary. As he and Castor approached the front door, the combination of normalcy and tension tightened a knot in his stomach. His senses heightened, instincts on high alert. Castor nodded at him, silently confirming their readiness to breach the split level.

"Remember, we don't know what we're walking into," he pointedly reminded the junior agent before pushing the front door open.

The interior of the house was dimly lit, just what was coming in through the windows, and he and Castor began cautiously making their way through the house, methodically clearing each of the rooms.

The tension in the air escalated as the two agents ascended the staircase, their senses heightened, alert for any sign of trouble. As they reached the top of the sole staircase, they found a door slightly ajar, a dim light spilling through the opening.

Without hesitation, he pushed the door open, revealing a small, dimly lit room. There, bound and gagged, was Lieutenant Savannah Lawson. Relief washed over her face as she saw the two NCIS agents walk in.

He swiftly moved to take off the woman's restraints, his expression a mix of concern and determination. "Lieutenant Lawson, you're safe now. Let's get you out of here." He turned to the junior agent. "Inform Ops."

The Lieutenant nodded, her gratitude evident in her eyes. "Thank you. I was getting a little bored just working on my sitting world record." She flashed both agents a playful grin. "Captivity Olympics, anyone?"

"Yeah," he quipped. "I've gone for Houdini's record a few times myself."

Castor spoke over their comms while Callen finished with the restraints. "We've found Lieutenant Lawson. She's safe. Extracting her now."

Relief swept over Callen as he escorted Lieutenant Lawson from the dimly lit room and off the El Sereno property. He shared a glance with Castor - a silent acknowledgment of the rescue. They both wanted to get the Lieutenant to the safety of the Boatshed as soon as possible and interview her about the kidnapping.

As they walked into the Boatshed, Nate acknowledged their arrival with a small nod. "Lieutenant Lawson, welcome to the Boatshed."

The Lieutenant nodded politely, her eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and curiosity as she took in the slightly unusual surroundings. "Thank you, sir. This team's, uh, little clubhouse certainly has some charm."

Nate chuckled softly. "You get used to the fish smell."

"Take a seat," Callen requested with a small gesture toward the couch in the interview area. "We just have a few questions for you."

Lieutenant Lawson nodded and took a seat. Callen took the seat across from her, Nate joining them. "Can you tell us who took you?" Callen asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "Sean Peterson and Jake Cabrera." The Lieutenant then went on to explain that Peterson and Cabrera, desperate for some quick cash, had tried to use her to get their hands on intel related to Project Horizon to sell it to the Peña Cartel.

With Lieutenant Lawson's revelation about the Peña Cartel's involvement, the urgency of the situation became even more apparent.

As Lieutenant Lawson continued sharing the little information she knew, Kensi's voice crackled over their comms. "Callen, I just found emails from Cabrera to Miguel Peña, Domingo's cousin. And they were definitely in the middle of a transaction."

"Good work," he said, with a small nod despite knowing that she couldn't see it. "Send me, Deeks, and Castor a copy of all the communications you found." Castor was in the main interrogation room with Peterson and Deeks was upstairs with Cabrera. This was a good tool to get the pair to turn on each other.

"On it," Kensi replied, immediately doing as requested.

"Deeks and Castor," he instructed, "keep the pressure on Peterson and Cabrera. Make them believe turning on each other is their best option." Grabbing the remote from the table, he turned on the video feed for both interrogation rooms.

Castor focused on Sean Peterson. "That's not my email or anything. I ain't got nothing to do with this. It's all Jake."

"So you had no idea what he was doing?" Castor asked.

"None," Peterson claimed. "I'm his foster brother, not his keeper."

Meanwhile, in the interrogation room upstairs, Deeks focused on Jacob Cabrera.

"Listen, amigo, you're in deep. Your only way out is to give us everything," Deeks said. "Peterson's downstairs right now telling my partner how it was all your idea. And with the emails we just found, it really doesn't look good for you." Deeks leaned across the table slightly. "I'm your only friend here."

"Sean's lying!" Cabrera snapped. "This was supposed to be a big payday for the both of us. He was in on it from the beginning."

"I'm all ears," Deeks said. "Get talking."

Cabrera hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Okay, look, it was Sean's idea from the start. He knew I had some contacts that could help. But killing Mercer? That wasn't part of the plan."

"It wasn't?" Deeks asked. "Then why was his place shot up?"

"Two birds, one stone!" Cabrera explained. "Sean saw Mercer talking to the Lieutenant and considered it an opportunity. Sean absolutely hates the guy for what he did to him as a kid. For good reason. Mercer brutalized him."

"And this was his way of settling the score," Deeks surmised.

Not really paying attention to Cabrera's response, he quickly filled Castor in over their comms. He then watched as Castor leaned forward a tad, studying Peterson's reaction. "Jake claims that everything was your idea, Sean. He's saying that you're the one who orchestrated the whole plan, even the attack on Mercer."

"Time to turn up the heat," he said over the comms. "I'm coming in, Castor."

Nate shot him a slightly concerned look as Callen started making his way into the main interrogation room to speak with Peterson, but he felt it was their best shot at getting a full confession. Sitting down across from Peterson, Callen kept his expression calm, though a fire smouldered in his eyes. "Look, Sean, I know what Mercer's capable of, firsthand. If you shot him, I wouldn't blame you."

Peterson's gaze met his, a mixture of defiance and vulnerability in his eyes. "You think you understand, but you don't," he muttered, his voice filled with bitterness. "You've got no idea what living in that hellhole was like. But I didn't hurt him."

He leaned forward, his voice low but intense. "Mercer was my foster father too, Sean. I get it, you gotta trust me on that."

His revelation about the shared background hung in the air, blunging the room into a momentary silence. He also noted the subtle shift in Peterson's expression, a mixture of surprise and understanding. He also had no doubt that Nate was going to request a session with him after this.

"You're... you're serious?" Peterson stammered, his guard momentarily slipping.

"Dead serious," he affirmed. "I understand the pain, the anger. I really do."

Peterson's defences crumbled, and he ran a hand through his hair, visibly conflicted. "I didn't even have to do anything wrong. He just hated me for having ADHD."

"Yeah, well, he didn't think much higher of Dyslexia," he stated. "You know, I ran away about a month in and the police took me right back there."

"Wish I could say I was surprised," Person replied, his tone resigned.

"Yeah," he admitted, his tone a mix of weariness and duty. "I gotta ask you this; it's a part of my job. But honestly, Sean, I get it if you did... Did you try to kill Mercer?"

Peterson's eyes flickered with a mix of pain, anger, guilt and resignation. After a heavy exhale, he admitted, "Yeah, I did. I tried to shoot Mercer."

"Okay," Callen said, a quiet acknowledgment that carried the weight of understanding. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for a legal pad and pen on the nearby table, sliding the items toward Peterson. "Write it all down, Sean. This is your chance to have your side heard."

Peterson hesitated for a moment before taking the pen and legal pad. As he began to write, the room remained enveloped in a heavy silence, the tension palpable. Callen exchanged a glance with Castor before getting up and leaving the interrogation room.

Exiting the interrogation, Callen made a sharp left turn, avoiding eye contact with the other agents and heading straight for the small coffee bar. Though acutely aware they wouldn't judge him, he still needed a moment to collect himself. The familiar gurgle of the coffee machine offered a brief respite from the intensity of the situation.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, he took out his cell phone and called his partner. "Hey. Situation's all clear, detail's over."

"Great," Sam replied. "Any complications?"

He leaned against the counter, staring into his coffee. "No. Full confessions. Wrapping up here and then I'll meet you at the office."

As he hung up, Nate approached him. "That was one hell of a move in there, Callen." The psychologist's expression shifted. "You wanna talk about it?"

He sighed. "It was a long time ago, Nate. I'm fine, really."

Nate nodded, understanding Callen quite well after so many years of working together. "Alright, but if you decide you need to, you know where to find me."

Callen gave Nate a small, appreciative nod before making his way back to the team. They had two suspects to book, paperwork to do, and likely a sea of civilian and JAG lawyers about to show up on their doorstep. The job was never done.

Chapter 67: Targets, Tacos, and the Ties That Bind

Callen and Anna kicked off their day with some breakfast bagels, joking and sipping coffee as they took advantage of the morning calm. As Callen poured himself another cup of coffee, discussing the courses he still had to recertify in, Callen's phone started to vibrate. Taking it out, he saw his foster brother Raymond Lewis's name and picture flashing on the small screen.

He tilted his head in slight surprise as he answered the call. He was warmly greeted by the familiar voice of his older foster brother. "Morning, G."

His eyes lit up. It had been a while since they had talked, but he'd always looked up to Ray, who'd easily become like a big brother to him back when they were in foster care together. And clearly, this was a social call. "Hey, Ray. What's up?"

"Paula and I were thinking it's been too long since we caught up," Ray explained, voice filled with warmth. "How about you and Anna join us for dinner tonight?"

"Dinner tonight?" he reiterated. He quickly exchanged a glance with his wife, who gave an approving nod. "Sounds great, Ray. We'd love to. What time?"

"Great! Dinner's at seven," Raymond replied. "Paula's making her homemade lasagne. And trust me, you won't want to miss it."

"Looking forward to it, Ray!" he replied with a warm smile. He didn't know why he'd let so much time pass since they'd seen each other last. "Same address?"

"Same address," Raymond happily confirmed. "Can't wait to catch up and hear what's been going on with you, man. And bring that lady friend of yours."

Callen chuckled. "She'll be there," he agreed.

As the call ended, his wife leaned in slightly, her curiosity evident. "Ray? He's the older foster brother you told me about, right?"

He nodded, a fondness in his eyes. "Yeah, that's him. It's been a while since I've seen him. I'm excited for you to meet him and Paula."

Anna's smile grew, already looking forward to the evening. "Homemade lasagne, huh? Sounds like we're in for a treat."

"You have no idea," he replied. "Paula can cook." He was also thrilled when he learned that her LVRS had been successful and, although not quite 100%, no longer needed to be on oxygen tanks. She was able to just go about her regular business and had a way better quality of life. Even if she wasn't about to run a marathon.

They soon wrapped up breakfast, sharing a quick kiss before grabbing their things and heading out for another honest day's work.

It was a fairly quiet morning in the bullpen as well. His team had no active cases requiring them in the field and the entire unit was working on paperwork. Of course, he and Sam eventually redefined paperwork as playing Horse with wads of paper and a small garbage can, but no one really felt like correcting them.

The last few days had been a little bit hectic. He and Anna had a doctor's appointment and work was keeping them quite busy. They had completed their First Aid and OCAT requalifications the previous day and attended the Sexual Harassment Seminar the day before that. Although his team was mostly caught up on everything, they were going to be pulled out intermittently for their Firearms requalifications. After that, barring a paperwork SNAFU, they'd be done with the mandatory training sessions.

As the morning unfolded, the Firearms instructor pulled Deeks, Rountree, and Fatima from their paperwork to take their Firearms qualifications.

As noon rolled around, he and the team headed out to a nearby food truck to grab a bite to eat. Callen hadn't had to do much convincing to get them to join him for some fish tacos from Carlos's Border Grill.

Just as they were finishing up lunch, the firearms instructor approached their bullpen, pointing at him. "Agent Callen, you're up."

Heading down to the on-site firing range, he confidently gripped his SIG-Sauer P229. The rhythmic shots echoed with precision, each round from his service weapon finding its mark effortlessly. The routine felt like second nature to him, and casting a glance at the targets ahead, a quiet assurance filled him.

Instructor Thomas, a subject matter expert, observed with a nod of approval as Callen emptied his magazine into the cardboard targets downrange.

Entering the bullpen once he was done, he eyed Sam. "You're up, Partner."

Sam gave him a small nod, tossing his empty lunch container into the garbage before making his own way down to the firing range.

With his partner off doing on his qualification, Callen returned to his desk, glancing over the new paperwork that awaited his attention. His personal paperwork was all done, but as his subordinates finished theirs, he now had several more Case Reports, After-Action Reports, evidence documentation, and other relevant documents of theirs to review before he sent them up the chain of command, namely to Hetty.

As he worked, Sam finally returned from the firing range, a satisfied look on his face. "Nailed it, right on the money!" his partner declared happily.

"You still trying to beat Instructor Thomas's score at weak-hand shooting?" he asked, lightly teasing his long-time partner.

Sam rolled his eyes. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to get better at a skill that directly benefits this team."

Callen arched a brow, smirking. "Never said there was," he countered. He then turned his focus back to the paperwork on his desk.

"And it's not like Callen has much room to talk," Deeks chimed in, giving him a playful look. "He's like the last American ninja."

"Or Q," Rountree quipped. "Seriously, you two are a little scary."

Sam flashed a confident grin. "We prefer the term effective. Don't we, G?"

He, still paying partial attention, glanced up with a smirk. "Exactly."

Just as he was finishing an especially detailed After-Action Report, Fatima walked up to his desk with a small stack of Manila folders in her hand. "Hey, Callen. Finished those reports you ask for."

"Thanks," he replied, accepting the folders from the junior agent.

After accepting the folders from Fatima, he took a moment to quickly glance over the contents before adding them to his stack.

As he delved into the reports, his cell phone buzzed. Fishing it out, he noticed it was a text from his younger sister, Alexandra. He opened it: `Hey, Grisha. I have a work trip to Pomona coming up. Are you able to watch Jake this weekend?'

Callen smiled, typing out a quick response.`Of course. Any chance I get to spend with Jake, I'm going to take it. You know that.'

Her response was almost immediate. 'Thank you.'

He fired back a response. `Looking forward to it.'

After sending the text, he returned his attention to the paperwork. With any luck, I'll actually be done all this by 1700.

Once the paperwork was finally under control, he decided to suggest a change of pace for the team. They needed to stay operational for another hour but it was a good time for a change of scenery. "How about we hit the gym for some hoops?"

The team enthusiastically agreed to his suggestion, and soon they found themselves at the gym, engaged in a friendly but competitive game of basketball. The sound of sneakers squeaking on the polished gym floor mixed with the occasional banter and laughter, creating a relaxed atmosphere. Kensi even joined them. She wasn't feeling the greatest, but she hung out, watching and teasing them.

Their game continued until the clock struck five, signalling the end of their work day. Sweaty but satisfied, the team gathered near the gym lockers, sharing a couple more laughs and catching their breath.

As the team dispersed from the gym, Callen gathered his things and headed home to get cleaned up for dinner at the Lewis's. It was a half-hour drive out to their house in Torrance, which wasn't too bad, but he really didn't want to be late.

Pulling into the driveway of Raymond and Paula's house on Alvanta Street, he parked the car, taking a moment to double the house number, ensuring they were at the right place: 5411. He'd only been to the house twice, after all.

The exterior of the ranch-style home exuded a welcoming charm, with simple colours and a cozy porch adorned with several potted plants. As he and Anna stepped onto the front porch, a warm glow from the porch light bathed it in a soft light. Callen knocked, the pair patiently waiting for either Paula or Raymond to answer.

The door swung open, revealing Raymond with a wide grin, his eyes lighting up as he saw him and Anna. "Hey, G! Anna! Glad you could make it." Raymond arched a brow. "And it's about time we met."

"Hey, Ray!" he greeted, shaking hands with his older foster brother.

Anna followed suit, offering a warm smile. "It's good to finally meet you."

"Come on in, come on in!" Raymond gestured before stepping aside to let them enter. The inviting aroma of Paula's cooking wafted through the air, mingling with the charm of several framed photographs capturing memories. The soft glow of ambient lighting highlighted the chosen decor, creating a welcoming atmosphere.

As they stepped into the cozy living room, Paula emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her face lit up with a warm smile at the sight of Callen and Anna. "Well, look who's here! Grisha, it's been too long." She held out her hand. "And you must be Anna. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Anna shook the other woman's hand. "Lovely to finally meet you."

They chatted for a couple of minutes before making their way to the dining area, where the kitchen table was set for four. The rich aroma of Paula's cooking filled the air, making everyone's stomachs growl in anticipation.

As they settled around the kitchen table and dished up, Paula shifted the conversation. "So, Anna, how did you and Grisha meet?" she asked.

"Through my father," Anna explained. There was no point dodging the question when both Raymond and Paula knew that he worked for NCIS. "He and Grisha have worked together a few times over the years. I needed a hand."

"Although I seem to recall you more or less handling things before I get involved," he remarked. "Not sure how much help I actually was."

"True," Anna said in jest. "I can take care of myself just fine."

Raymond leaned back, a playful grin on his face. "You know, brother, I was right. You were a fool for not listening to Sam."

He rolled his eyes, chuckling softly. "And I'm still not telling him that." He turned to his wife. "Ray ribbed me for putting off proposing to you."

Anna grinned and turned to his older foster brother. "I knew I liked you," she quipped. "So, what do you two do?"

"I'm an office administrator at our church," Paula replied. "There's a certain amount of flexibility I've come to like."

"And I work at RYSE," Raymond said without missing a beat. "It's a local youth centre for foster and other at-risk kids." Between bites of lasagne, Raymond continued with a twinkle in his eye. "RYSE can be challenging, but it's rewarding. Helping these kids find their way - it's something special."

Paula smiled warmly at her husband, her eyes filled with pride. "Ray has a real gift for connecting with those children at RYSE," she stated. "It's incredible to see the impact he has on their lives."

"That's very admirable," Anna said. "I'm sure it means the world to those kids."

Raymond grinned, appreciating the recognition. "Well, sometimes all they need is just one person who believes in them," he said.

He nodded in agreement, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah." Callen then shoved another bite of lasagne into his mouth.

"And what do you do, Anna?" Paula asked after swallowing a mouthful of pasta.

"I'm a private investigator," Anna replied. "With a focus on parental kidnappings."

"That's great," Paula stated. "Takes a special kind of dedication." She took a sip of her drink. "So, Grisha says you're from Moscow?"

"Yep," his wife confirmed. "Although, spent a lot of time in Krasnodar before eventually moving to Chicago and then Los Angeles."

Paula nodded, intrigued. "Had enough of the winters?" she asked in jest.

"Yeah, something like that!" Anna replied with a laugh.

"What did bring you to the Sunshine State?" Raymond inquired, eyeing Anna curiously.

Anna set her fork down and turned to Callen. "My husband, actually. Although, I made it clear I wanted to take things slow given I'd just moved to L.A."

As they all enjoyed Paula's delicious cooking, the conversation continued to flow easily, everyone getting updated on each other's lives. Why did I never look Ray up for all of those years? Oh, well, at least we're back in each other's lives.

Chapter 68: From Psych Talks to Undercover Walks

Callen and Anna's morning was calm, the pair enjoying a light breakfast together after an early morning phone call from one of Anna's maternal cousins - Ekaterina - back in Moscow. At the office a short while later, Callen's team was reminded by their petite Operations Manager that it was time for the annual psych evals.

Unfortunately, that meant they were getting pulled from the bullpen one by one to go and talk to an operational psychologist. Thankfully, that operational psychologist was Nate. Hetty figured that Nate was the operational psychologist that they'd all be the most comfortable with, and she was right. None of them had particularly liked dealing with Dr. Szuhay the last time around and the psychologist just really rubbed Callen, in particular, the wrong way. The guy was too pushy for his liking.

It was shortly after 0900 when Nate got his attention. "Callen, you're up first. Let's go have a chat," the man said, motioning towards the stairs.

He raised an eyebrow. "Can't grab a cup of coffee first?" he replied wryly.

"Only if you're quick," Nate replied with a small smile. "Hetty's orders."

Callen, realizing Nate's strategy, smirked. He had to assume that they didn't want to give him a chance to catch a case or otherwise weasel out of it. He had been known to try and postpone his evaluations after all. He couldn't really blame Hetty or Nate. "Figures," he said, finishing making his cup of coffee. "Lead the way, Doc."

Callen followed Nate up the stairs, less worried about this year than he had been in years past. He actually felt like he was in a pretty good place for once and not simply 'bordering on good some days' like he'd told Gibbs at one point.

As they walked into Nate's old office, the operational psychologist gestured to one of the chairs across from the desk. "So, how have you been doing, Callen?" he inquired, his tone friendly yet professional.

Callen took a seat on the indicated chair, leaning back and crossing his arms casually. "I am well," he replied without missing a beat. "Real well. Things with Anna are good, things at work are good."

Nate nodded with a smile, scribbling a note on his pad. "Glad to hear that," he stated. "What about Mercer or the nightmares you were already having?"

He rolled his eyes. "Mercer's irrelevant. That was a long time ago, Nate. I have moved on." He scoffed before continuing. "Now, Drona… that's a whole other issue. But the nightmares have gotten way less frequent."

Nate smiled, jotting down more notes. "Good to hear," the man replied. "How are you feeling about that whole situation?"

"The methods were completely reprehensible," he said. "I'm never gonna approve of or condone what Pembrook did." He subtly licked his lips. "Pembrook - he took what little of a childhood I had, tortured me, dehumanized me… That's always gonna hurt. But I refuse to let him take anything more from me."

Nate nodded, something flashing in his eyes that Callen couldn't quite read. "I noticed you mentioned your childhood first," the operational psychologist remarked. "Is there any particular reason that's on your mind?"

Callen hesitated for a beat but knew that Nate wouldn't go around telling anyone. He started to smile and said, "Anna's pregnant."

Nate's eyes widened, a warm smile spreading across the man's face. "Congratulations, Callen! That's amazing. How are you feeling about becoming a father?"

His expression softened, a mix of emotions playing on his face. "It's... a lot to process, but in a good way. For years, I thought I couldn't have a family of my own."

Nate nodded, understanding the significance to him. "Becoming a parent is a big step," the man pointed out. "Have you thought about your upbringing and how it might influence your approach to parenting?"

Callen leaned back slightly, considering the other man's question. "Yeah, I've thought about it," he said. "My childhood was really crappy, but it taught me a lot of what not to do. I wanna do better with our kid, make sure they can be a kid."

They continued chatting for another forty minutes or so before Nate was satisfied. As the psych eval wrapped up, Nate gave him reassuring smile. "It seems like you're in a pretty good place, Callen. Just remember, it's okay to lean on others, whether it's your team or your growing family."

Callen stood up and held out his hand. "I know, Nate. And, uh, thanks."

The operational psychologist shook the offered hand. "It's nothing. But, uh, if you can send Rountree up, that would be great."

"I can do that," he agreed with a small nod.

Heading back down to the bullpen, Callen sent the junior agent upstairs before sitting down at his desk. Apparently, they were still in the middle of a field-duty-less morning. He decided to take the time to check in with a few of their confidential informants about a few of their colder ongoing investigations.

Sam came down from his session with Nate shortly after Deeks had gone out to grab a bite to eat for everyone. It was a quarter past twelve, after all.

"Whose turn is it to pick the food truck today?" Sam questioned as he walked over to the small coffee bar to pour himself a mug.

"Deeks," Callen replied. "He said he found something we'll all really like."

"Why doesn't he just pick the shrimp curry?" Sam whined. "Everyone likes the shrimp curry. And after those nasty peanut butter and jelly sandwiches -"

"Maybe he learned his lesson," he said unconvincingly. The hazelnut butter and mango-chutney marmalade sandwiches were beyond terrible but for some reason, Deeks had thought that they would be some kind of culinary home-run.

About seven minutes later, Deeks walked in with the promised lunch, balancing a stack of styrofoam containers along with a bag full of water bottles. The enticing aroma filled the bullpen as Deeks started handing out the grub. "Feast your eyes on the holy trinity of fried rice, my friends!" Deeks said enthusiastically. "Beef, Chicken, and Shrimp Fried Rice Bowls."

Callen took a bite of his rice bowl, nodding in approval. "Not bad, Deeks. You've almost redeemed yourself from the mango chutney disaster." It had been years, but they had no intentions of letting him live it down.

"Almost," Sam agreed.

Deeks swallowed a bite of food and grinned. "Yeah, those were completely terrible. But this, my friend, is pure deliciousness."

As the team dug into the fried rice bowls, Deeks shared a story from a few weeks back about his and Kensi's friends Kip Brigham and Anna Kline - an enjoyable shift from the usual anecdotes featuring Cat, Mindy, Mandy, Tiffany, and Tiffany.

After lunch, the team returned to their desks to resume work. Kensi and Deeks were deep in conversation about Rosa and the guy from school - Steven - who had recently asked the sixteen-year-old out for a proper date. Deeks was, well, being a little bit melodramatic about his daughter dating. Unsurprisingly.

Rountree and Fatima were off to the side slightly, discussing some dancing mishap of the younger man's with his girlfriend Summer Morehurst.

Meanwhile, Callen responded to a few work-alias emails. Sam, on the other hand, was engrossed in a training manual he'd been reviewing before excusing himself to take a phone call from his father. So far, the clinical trial the Colonel had been approved for appeared to be making a difference. The man wasn't declining the way he had before the trial, leaving Raymond with more good days than bad. For the time being, at least.

Later in the afternoon, a buzz on Callen's cell phone demanded his attention. Grabbing it, he noticed the others' cell phones going off. It was a short message from one of the Cyber Intelligence Analysts. 'Ops Centre. Now.'

"Duty calls," he quipped, his voice carrying a mix of anticipation and readiness.

Deeks flashed a grin as he stood up. "Well, there goes our afternoon siesta."

Kensi rolled her eyes but smiled. "At least you guys get out of the office," she quipped. She was only thirteen weeks pregnant and already starting to get a little annoyed with light duty, even if she was thrilled about the pregnancy.

"She's got you there," Fatima said with a chuckle.

They gathered their badges and service weapons and filed upstairs to the Operations Centre. Shortly after they walked into Ops, Hetty joined them, a familiar look on the petite Operations Manager's face. Whatever it is isn't good.

"Mr. Callen and Mr. Hanna, you have a new undercover assignment," Hetty stated. She then turned to Deeks, Fatima and Rountree. "And as for you three, an F/A-18E Super Hornet out of NAS Lemoore went down during a routine Navy training exercise. You're tasked with the Aircraft Accident Investigation." She glanced down at her wristwatch. "You have ten minutes before your helo arrives."

The three agents nodded before heading out to grab their gear while Callen, Sam and Kensi remained in place for the rest of the briefing.

Hetty, efficient as always, pulled up an I.D. photo of a man named Theodore Bennett, presumably the target of their undercover operation. "This is Theodore 'Ted' Bennett," she stated, gesturing to the image on the screen. "Owner of Westside Cargo Solutions and suspected arms dealer. We also have reason to believe that Bennett is behind the weapons theft from Camp Pendleton a while back."

Callen's eyes narrowed slightly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "When that batch of M4s and M9s went missing?" he clarified.

"That's the one," Hetty confirmed.

His partner raised an eyebrow. "Stealing military weaponry? That's bold."

"Takes audacity to a whole new level," Kensi agreed.

"Indeed," Hetty readily agreed. She then turned to him. "Mr. Callen, you'll be going undercover as a new hire at Westside Cargo Solutions using your old alias James Carr." Ah, Jimmy the Mail Guy. That's just great. "The job interview is at 1430."

He nodded, trying to decide how to best play the job interview. Making sure he landed the job was crucial; otherwise, the whole operation would go down the drain before it even started. Hopefully, it'll go smoother than the Ultrasoft Games Corporation one.

"Gather intel on Bennett's arms dealings and the possible connection to the Pendleton theft," Hetty continued. She then gestured to Sam. "Mr. Hanna will be on overwatch." She then indicated Kensi. "Ms. Blye will, of course, be providing auxiliary support for both operations from here at the office."

With Hetty's directives sinking in, he mentally shifted gears, preparing himself for the upcoming undercover mission. As they dispersed, Callen made his way to Wardrobe to get ready for the job interview. Another day, another alias.

Chapter 69: Interviews and Intricacies

The clock in the small, brightly lit office read 1425. Callen, more than used to the spy game, adjusted his shirt and took a deep breath, replaying his cover story in his head. He sat in a black leather chair he'd been escorted to a few minutes earlier, waiting for his job interview at Westside Cargo Solutions.

The office door finally opened, revealing Theodore Bennett, a man in his late forties. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted in as the man walked in and Callen rose to his feet, smiling with a practiced warmth.

Bennett's calm yet calculating gaze met his, the pair sharing a small nod as the other man extended his hand. "James Carr, right?"

With a firm grip on Bennett's hand, Callen nodded, keeping the smile plastered on his face. "Yes, but you can call me Jimmy."

"And you can call me Ted," the man replied.

He continued smiling warmly at the man, concealing the tension he was feeling. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ted." He was laying it on a little thick, but he felt he needed to. Not getting the job wasn't an option.

Bennett eyed him closely while settling into the chair behind his desk. "So, Jimmy, tell me about yourself. What makes you a good fit for the position?"

He leaned forward slightly. "Well, I have a solid background in logistics," he explained, "and I've worked in similar positions in the past."

Bennett nodded in acknowledgment but didn't speak.

"I'm also very detail-oriented and efficient," Callen continued. "Qualities that I believe align well with what Westside Cargo Solutions values."

Bennett nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. "Good. So, we occasionally deal with sensitive cargo here, Jimmy. Confidentiality's important in those situations. How are you with discretion?"

He met Bennett's gaze, his tone steady. This was a question that would make or break his chance at gaining Bennett's trust. "I've handled sensitive info in previous roles," he replied. "I understand the importance of discretion."

Bennett leaned back in his chair slightly, studying him for a moment before continuing. "Handling sensitive information requires a level of trust," he remarked. "Breaching that trust will be taken very seriously."

He dipped his head slightly. "As it should be, sir."

"And how do you handle tight deadlines?" Bennett inquired, appearing more engaged. "We often work on a schedule that demands quick turnarounds."

Callen leaned back slightly, exuding confidence. "I do well under pressure," he replied. "Tight deadlines sharpen my focus, and I haven't missed one yet."

Bennett raised an eyebrow, seemingly intrigued. "Impressive, Jimmy. Now, how would you handle any discrepancies in shipping documentation or, uh, last-minute changes in shipping plans?" the man asked.

He met the man's gaze and smiled. "Flexibility's important and I've always found that success comes from understanding and following the leader," he said, subtly implying a willingness to go along with Bennett's methods. "To that end, I'd coordinate with you and adhere to the team's established practices."

Bennett nodded. "Good approach, Jimmy."

Callen answered several more questions and then Bennett, after a brief moment of contemplation, stood up and gave him a small smile. "You seem to have the qualities we're looking for, Jimmy!" He offered his right hand. "Welcome to Westside Cargo Solutions. You can start tomorrow morning."

He shook Bennett's hand, a sense of accomplishment mingling with the knowledge that his undercover op had just taken a significant step forward. "Thank you, Ted. I'm looking forward to being part of the team."

Exiting the office, Callen's thoughts raced, anticipating the challenges that lay ahead. He briskly walked down the corridor, the clack of his shoes against the polished floor echoing a newfound sense of purpose.

As he left the building, the California sun warmed his face, contrasting the cool interior of the office. He pulled out his cell phone, sending a coded message to OPS, informing Kensi and Hetty that he had successfully landed the job. Then, with the mission now in full swing, Callen hopped into the car parked down the street.

"Smooth operator in there, G!" Sam said with a wry grin as Callen quickly settled into the passenger-side seat of the Hellcat. "Bennett didn't see you coming."

Callen directed a playful grin at the former SEAL. "It's an art, Partner. You of all people should appreciate that," he quipped.

Sam laughed, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Oh, I appreciate the art of war, Hong Kong Phooey."

A grin spread across his face at Sam's playful jab, catching the reference to an inside joke of theirs from a while back. "That's why I keep you around, Underdog."

With an amused smile, Sam shook his head, turned the car keys, and they began the drive back to the Office of Special Projects.

Arriving at the office, he and Sam found Hetty and Kensi already waiting for them in the bullpen for what he suspected was to be an operational debrief. Hetty quickly got his attention, not wanting to waste time. "How did the interview go, Mr. Callen?" she asked. "What's your read on our suspected arms dealer?"

Callen sat on his desk, considering the question. "Bennett's composed, calculated," he replied. "He likes control and keeps his cards close to his vest. All his questions were carefully worded and he was trying to read me the whole time."

"Yeah," Kensi quickly agreed. "I noticed that too."

"And the office building itself?" Hetty inquired.

"He's meticulous," he explained. "The building has solid security, with restricted access points and surveillance. Bennett's office had a locked door off of It as well."

"He mentioned dealing with sensitive cargo and emphasized the need for discretion," Sam said, finally chiming in. "This guy's definitely knee-deep in way more than just shipping blankets and teddy bears, period."

"That much is obvious," he agreed. "Guy's paranoid."

"Some degree of paranoia is hardly unexpected," Hetty remarked, "but I don't have to tell you to keep your wits about you."

He gave a subtle shake of the head. "No, you don't."

Kensi, already typing on her tablet, glanced up at them. "I'll dive further into Bennett's background," she offered. "Financial transactions, personal connections - anything that you can use to connect with Bennett."

The conversation turned into a bit of a strategy session, although Kensi got called out part-way through their meeting to go support Deeks and the others with background information for the ongoing Aircraft Accident Investigation.

Once their operational debrief concluded, he quickly changed out of the dress clothes into more comfortable attire. He and Sam then made their way to the gym, deciding to go shoot some hoops for the remaining half-hour of their shift. They had to stay operational but didn't have much else to do right then.

After the spirited game of basketball, he and Sam both grabbed their things and headed to the motor pool. Sam then quickly dropped Callen off at home before going to get ready for some drinks with Nicole DeChamps at Spire 73 - baby steps back into the dating world.

As for Callen, entering the house, he heard his wife and father-in-law's voices coming from the backyard, the pair chatting away in rapid Russian. Making his way out back, his wife smiled warmly and said, "Privet, milyy. Kak den' proshel?" (Hey, Babe. How was your day?)

Callen returned the smile, walking up and kissing his wife on the cheek. He then said, "Eto bylo khorosho, spasibo. A kak u tebya?" He then turned to his father-in-law, who had a large glass of presumably Stolichnaya in hand, and nodded. "Arkady." (It was good, thanks. And how was yours?)

Arkady nodded, smiling. "Dobryy vecher, Grisha." (Good evening, Grisha.)

"Moy byl dlinnym, no khoroshim," Anna replied happily. She then turned and gave her father a look of fond exasperation. "Khotya otets kak raz rasskazyval mne ob odnom iz svoikh malen'kikh vykhodok." (Mine was long, but good. Although my father was just telling me about another one of his little escapades.)

He rolled his eyes. "konechno, byl." (Of course, he was.)

Arkady shot him a cheeky grin. "Ty dolzhen uslyshat' istoriyu o tom, kogda ya -" (You really must hear the story of when I -)

Anna quirked an eyebrow. "- prokhodil proslushivanie dlya Koshki?" she deadpanned, referencing a prior conversation. (- auditioned for Cats?)

Arkady instantly gave Anna a mocking look, his voice laced with sarcasm. "O, tak smeshno." (Oh, so funny.)

He subtly rolled his eyes. "I'm not even gonna ask," he remarked, sliding into English almost reflexively. He grabbed a cold beer from the cooler by the backdoor and sat down in the empty lawn chair to Anna's left.

Arkady shot him a playful look, making the switch to English as well. "You see, Grisha, there was this time in Berlin when - "

Interrupting, Anna rolled her eyes in mild exasperation. "Papa, not the Berlin story again. I've heard it at least a hundred times."

Arkady chuckled, unfazed. "Ah, Annushka, but Grisha has not. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, at rooftop bar in downtown Berlin…"

The three of them settled into a conversation, their backyard buzzing with laughter as they started swapping stories. Arkady, true to form, did a fair amount of oversharing, but that was hardly surprising at this point. It was Arkady, after all.

As the evening wore on, the stories morphed into a comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional chuckle. He couldn't help but find a sense of peace in the casual banter and easygoing atmosphere which were a far cry from the uncertainties of foster care. It's crazy how much my life has changed.

Chapter 70: Sirens and Stitches

Two weeks zipped by in a blur of covert meetings, Kensi and Deeks' beach barbecue, Jake spending the night after the cookout, having Raymond and Paula over for dinner, and punching the clock as a humdrum shipping clerk at Westside Cargo Solutions, a role that he had quickly settled into. While the typical nine-to-five grind dealing with packages and paperwork lacked a certain glamour, it also provided Callen with a solid cover and the necessary access to intel.

So, after grabbing some bacon, eggs, and toast for breakfast with his wife, he headed into the warehouse for another eight-hour shift.

As he methodically flipped through the morning's shipping records, a particular invoice caught his attention. The details seemed fairly innocuous at first glance – a standard shipment going to an unassuming address in San Diego. However, a discrepancy in weight hinted at the package needing a closer look. Especially when Callen felt like he'd seen that address on an invoice the week prior.

As his suspicion deepened, he quickly cross-referenced the current shipping details with an invoice from the week prior. Callen then took out his burner phone and quickly fired off a text to Sam. '506 W San Ysidro Blvd. Weight discrepancy.'

Sam's reply came through within seconds. 'On it.'

With that in handled, Callen quickly deleted the texts on his end and refocused on his task. It was about forty-five minutes later when his burner phone buzzed. Fishing it out, he saw a new message from Sam. 'Property belongs to Alejandro Molina. Carlos Molina's cousin. Watch your six.'

He sighed at what was more or less a confirmation of their suspicions that Bennett was selling weapons. Unfortunately, Alejandro Molina's involvement added a whole other level of risk to the situation. 'Copy that.'

Making sure he wasn't being watched, he quickly deleted the incriminating texts from his burner phone, not wanting a clear digital trace of their investigation.

He'd just shoved his phone in his pocket when the door suddenly opened. He carefully schooled his expression and turned to his mark. Bennet was walking over with a bit of a cautious expression on his face.

"Jimmy, my man!" Bennett said with feigned cheer. "How's it going?"

"Pretty smoothly," he replied casually, picking up another invoice from the stack.

"Good," Bennett replied, relaxing slightly. "No issues?"

He offered a practiced smile, his mind working overtime. "Nope. Just double-checking a couple of numbers," he said. "Want to make sure everything's in order."

Bennett's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he nodded. "Good, good. We can't afford any mistakes, can we, Jimmy?"

Keeping his tone light, he replied, "No, we can't." As Bennett finally headed back to his office, Callen's mind started racing. He wanted this mission handled before his cover was jeopardized. As it was, he wasn't sure if Bennett believed him.

As the hours ticked by, he seamlessly carried out his duties, blending into the routine of Westside Cargo Solutions. During his lunch break, he spotted Christopher Dempsey, a familiar face in the breakroom.

He casually moved to sit down beside the man. "Hey, Chris, mind if I join you?"

Dempsey gave him a friendly nod. "Not at all, man. How's it going?"

"Not too shabby," he said with a shrug. "Starting to get the hang of things, I guess."

"Like two weeks in, right?" Dempsey quipped. "You're practically a veteran now."

"Yeah, something like that," he replied with a soft chuckle. "Your advice from the first week really helped."

"Glad to hear it," Dempsey replied with a grin. "You're picking up the pace, that's for sure. So, what's up?"

He shot the man a curious look. "I was actually wondering if you've noticed anything interesting around here," he said, maintaining a casual demeanour. "You know, any quirks in the shipments or irregularities?"

Dempsey leaned back, considering the question. "Not really, man. Just the usual grind. Why? Something on your mind?"

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Just being thorough, you know? Want to make sure I'm on top of things. Don't want any surprises."

"For sure," Dempsey said. "Well, like a month ago Asher mentioned a shipment being off – electronics, I think. But it was probably just a paperwork mistake."

"Electronics, huh?" he inquired, swallowing a bite of his sandwich. "That's interesting. Where was it headed?"

Dempsey rubbed his chin, recalling the details. "San Diego, I believe. It seemed a bit odd, but I really didn't dig too deep into it."

"Fair enough," he said with a small nod. Feeling like he'd pushed enough, he shifted the conversation toward something not work-related. "So, did you and Kayla hit up that restaurant you mentioned the other day?"

The slightly younger gave him a small nod of approval. "No, yeah, we went and hit it up last night after work. The food was really dank."

The pair sat and casually talked for a bit until their lunch breaks came to an end, both men needing to get back to work at the loading dock.

Walking by Bennett's office on his way to the loading dock, Callen couldn't help but overhear a tense conversation coming from inside. Bennett's voice carried an edge. "... can't afford any slip-ups, not tonight."

He subtly slowed his pace, hoping that catching fragments of the conversation would give him something solid to work with.

"No, yeah. You have until six o'clock," Bennett stated sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Make sure you bring what we discussed. I'll see you there."

Callen let out a small sigh. Bennet was clearly talking to someone about a rendezvous that evening after work. Unfortunately, they were being very vague but he was able to get at least one piece of actionable intel. Slipping into the nearby washroom for a bit of privacy, he texted Sam. 'Bennett has a meet at 1800.'

His partner replied rather quickly, simply confirming he had received the intel. Shoving his burner phone into his pocket, Callen hurried down to the loading dock. Resuming his cover job duties, he kept up the ongoing façade while counting down the minutes until the end of that day's shift.

As the nearby clock finally signalled the end of his shift at the warehouse, he made his way to OSP for a quick tactical briefing with the team.

Kensi had successfully secured a search warrant for Bennett's cell phone, allowing the team to track the man's movements as Callen hadn't been able to learn the location of the suspected arms deal earlier on.

Being fed updates on Bennett's location, the team followed him to the meeting site in Mid-City. Huddled behind a nearby building, keeping a low profile, he quickly snapped photos of the men. Sending the photos to Ops, Kensi jumped in with a short rundown on who those people were: Bennett, the main guy, PFC Noah Ferreira who worked at the armoury at Camp Pendleton, and Oliver Lockwood, a civilian with a bag in his hand and owner of Lockwood's Precision Firearms.

"$20 says that bag's holding a cache of weapons," he softly remarked. Now we know where Bennett's getting his weapons supply.

"Fool's bet," Sam muttered back.

As the arms deal continued, the team moved in for the arrest. The operation escalated quickly as several of the suspects pulled weapons on them, a firefight erupting. Chaos ensued, and in the midst of the firefight, Callen, while covering Roundtree who needed to reload, took a bullet to the shoulder.

With a sharp gasp, Callen felt the searing pain in his left shoulder as a bullet found its mark, the pain sending shockwaves through his body. For a split second, time slowed as he grappled with the ache. Grimacing but determined, Callen gritted his teeth and kept his focus on the fight. Don't feel. Pain's just a state of mind.

Despite the injury, Callen soldiered on, adrenaline pumping as he continued to fight alongside his team. Amidst the commotion, Rountree managed to disarm Ferreira, securing the guy's gun after a shot to the leg. After that, the team was able to quickly subdue the other perpetrators.

With the scene secured, Kensi radioed for medical assistance, ensuring that help was on the way for both he and Ferreira. As they waited for the medics, Deeks approached Callen, concern etched on his face.

"You okay, man?" Deeks asked worriedly, glancing at his blood-soaked shoulder.

"Just a scratch," he said, giving the younger man a reassuring smile despite how sore he was. I don't need anyone fussing. "I've had worse."

Deeks shot him a skeptical look. "That doesn't look like 'just a scratch' to me."

Sam, finished securing the crime scene as well as loading Bennet and Lockwood into the back of Deeks' Cadillac and the Challenger, joined them. Sam arched a brow, his eyes mirroring the worry. "I'm with Deeks on this one, Partner."

Callen shrugged off their concern with a smirk. "I've survived worse, guys. Just need a little patching up is all." And you know I hate being fussed over.

The former SEAL scoffed but didn't speak.

Before Callen could reply, two ambulances arrived, the EMTs quickly dispersing.

The Lead EMT swiftly assessed Callen's shoulder injury, preparing to transport him to a hospital. Getting loaded into the back of the ambulance, Callen felt a little irritated at the prospect of a hospital visit. "The bullet missed anything vital, alright? Just give me a few stitches." He eyed Sam and the EMT. "Guys, this is overkill. Honestly."

His partner shot him a playful grin, "G, you know how I am. Can't risk losing you. Not even for those slip-on dad shoes you're so fond of."

He sighed. "I'm glad you're enjoying this."

Sam chuckled unsympathetically. "You'll be fine."

He shot his partner a pointed look. I know, that's the point. I hate hospitals.

Deeks grinned, equally amused by his reluctance to ride in the ambulance. "Come on, look at the bright side. At least the Jell-O's good where you're going."

Rolling his eyes, Callen watched as his partner closed the ambulance doors. Once both doors were shut, Sam banged twice on them. "Use the siren! Fire it up!"

With a groan, Callen heard the ambulance siren blare to life, its urgent wails signalling the start of the short drive over to Cedars-Sinai Medical Centre. I hope I'm not stuck there overnight.

At Cedars-Sinai, he endured the obligatory round of stitches and medical attention, his impatience evident. The hospital staff, accustomed to the likes of him, mostly ignored his grumbling and focused on their work. Thankfully, there was no permanent damage, but he was going to be on light duty and have a sling for four to six weeks. Given the alternative, though, he really wasn't about to complain.

Despite his attempts to avoid it, the doctors insisted on hospital policy, so Callen was finally wheeled down to the front doors where Sam waiting for him.

On the way back to the Office of Special Projects, he and Sam decided to make a quick stop for coffee, knowing their team would appreciate the caffeine boost. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as they entered a nearby café.

Sam placed the order while Callen, still feeling rather sore, leaned against the counter. The barista handed Sam the tray of assorted coffees, and they made their way back to the black Challenger parked just outside.

With the tray secured on the centre console, Sam drove them back to OSP, navigating through Los Angeles traffic, quickly filling Callen in on what he'd missed while at the hospital. As they walked into the bullpen about fifteen minutes later, Callen, already holding his own drink, announced, "Forty-weights all around!"

Sam, carrying the rest of the drinks, added, "Courtesy of yours truly."

The large coffees earned the two elder field agents appreciative nods from the team, but Rountree seemed a little petulant. He arched a brow. "What's up?"

Fatima sighed as she grabbed her coffee. "Oh, don't get him started."

"Why does she need the reports tonight?" Rountree complained. "We literally just closed the case."

"'Cause we got a dozen federal agencies begging for the intel," he replied, not remotely surprised that Hetty had been inundated by phone calls from the alphabet soup when cartels, Marines, illegal weapons, and smuggling were involved.

"ATF, FBI, DHS…" Sam started to list.

Kensi places her coffee down on her desk. "DOJ, DOT…"

"Marine Corps CID…" Deeks chirped before taking a sip of his coffee.

"CBP," Fatima added, still clearly a little exasperated with her partner.

Rountree threw his hands up. "Okay, okay. I get it."

As the team hustled to finish their After Action Reports after for the recent arms deal takedown, banter and jokes lightened the mood, including a few jokes about the way Callen was typing one-handed due to his injured shoulder.

Hetty, keeping watch as she was often wont to do, walked into the bullpen. The petite woman came to a stop directly in front of his desk. "Mr. Callen, take a long weekend," she ordered. "Though your dedication is commendable, your health comes first."

Looking up from his laptop, Callen eyed his adoptive mother with a determined glint. "Hetty, I appreciate the concern, but I'm perfectly capable of finishing my A.A.R. and working up in Ops." I'm fine.

Hetty regarded him for a moment, her gaze stern. "The team will manage without you for the day," she countered bluntly. "Take tomorrow off and we shall see about placing you on light duty come Monday."

He sighed, knowing there was no arguing with the petite woman when she made her mind up about something. "Fine, long weekend it is."

With a nod of approval, Hetty walked away, leaving Callen to submit his A.A.R. with a mixture of relief and mild irritation. He was sore and a break didn't sound that bad, but he really disliked being seen as vulnerable or in need of extra care. Neither one ever meant anything good, growing up the way he did.

As he gathered his belongings, Sam slung an arm over his good shoulder, guiding him out of the bullpen. "Come on, G. I'll drive you home."

Chapter 71: Echoes of Innocence

Five weeks post-shooting, Callen was still sporting the black shoulder sling. It was a Saturday, and neither he nor Anna had been called into work yet. The morning began with an unexpected jolt as he woke, the echoes of a childhood memory still playing in his mind.

In the backyard of their quaint home in Vama Veche, a four-year-old Grigori and his big sister Amaliya, aged seven, were enjoying the warm summer sun. The air carried the sweet scent of blooming flowers from their mother's garden, creating a symphony of fragrances as the children played.

Their mother, Clara, was watching their lively antics from the shaded patio nearby, a tender smile gracing the dark-haired woman's lips.

"Prinde-mă, frățioare!" the older child said, playfully challenging the four-year-old. "Ești prea încet!" (Catch me, Baby Brother! You're too slow!)

Grisha, his laughter echoing through the backyard, shook his head and grinned. The soft touch of grass under his bare feet sent a delightful shiver through him. "Ba nu! Uită-te la mine!" (Nuh-uh! Watch me!)

As Amy dashed around the backyard, Grisha eagerly chased after her, his tiny legs struggling to keep up even as he laughed.

As the children continued playing their spirited game of Leapsa, their mother shook her head in amusement, drinking her glass of socată. As the older sibling eventually slowed her pace deliberately, Grisha's tiny legs closed the distance. When the little boy managed to catch up, both siblings erupted in laughter.

Proudly, Grisha started beelining it over to his mother, shouting, "Mamă, am făcut-o!" (Mommy, I did it!)

"Știu, Grisha! Am văzut," his mother said, engulfing the four-year-old boy in a bear hug. she then made the switch to Kalderash Romani. "Lasho shavo.” She gently placed a soft kiss on his forehead. (I know, Grisha! I saw. Good boy.)

"Me voliv tu, dále!” he replied, switching languages as well and stretching both his arms out widely. "But, but!" (I love you, Mommy! So, so much!)

"Thai vi me voliv tut, drago.” His mother gave him an affectionate smile as she spoke. She bopped him on the nose playfully as she did so. (And I love you too, Sweetie.)

Before the young boy could reply, Amy walked over to them. "Dále, sim bokhali.” His sister turned to him, laughing happily as she switched to Romanian. "Te-ai făcut super rapid, Grisha!" she praised. (Mom, I'm hungry. You're getting super fast, Grisha!)

He nodded proudly at his sister. "Da, da!" (Uh-huh!)

"Clar!" their mom beamed, glancing between them both. "Haideți, voi doi. Să mergem să ne pregătim pentru prânz. Tatăl vostru ar trebui să fie acasă în câteva minute." (Clearly! Come on, you two. Let's go and get ready for lunch. Your dad should be here in a couple of minutes.)

"Bine, mamă!" Amy chirped. "Putem avea niște mici și salam de biscuiți?" (Okay, Mom! Can we have some Mici and Chocolate Salami?)

Their mom rolled her eyes, still smiling warmly as she quickly adjusted her headscarf. "Sigur, scumpa mea." (Sure, Sweetie.)

Still reeling from the poignant memory, Callen's heart bore the weight of longing and love for the mom and older sister frozen in time. That memory could only have been a few months off at most from his mother's murder and when he and Amy were sent to the U.S. by their father and placed in separate orphanages.

He glanced over at Anna, peacefully asleep beside him. Careful not to disturb her, he slipped out of bed and silently made his way to the kitchen. The soft glow of dawn filtered through the windows as he went about making himself some tea, finding comfort in the routine. Especially as they’d been up late the day before, attending his father-in-law’s birthday celebration. 

Seeking a distraction, his eyes landed on the toaster, and he decided to disassemble it. Focused on the task, he let the familiar motions calm his racing thoughts. It was a bit more of a task, given his arm was in a sling, but he still found it calming.

When the toaster was reassembled once more, Callen grabbed his laptop. Perched at the kitchen table, he started practicing his Kalderash Romani. He hadn't dedicated a lot of time to it but had been slowly chipping away at it - reconnecting with roots and memories. Stitching together bits of love and loss in his own way.

His eyes fixed on the words on the computer screen, he muttered, “Nai man zhukel.” Pausing, Callen tried to recall what nai meant. After a moment though, he decided to go with, "I don't have a dog."

He grinned as he checked the answer in the e-book and it confirmed  that he had successfully given the right one.

An hour and a half later, his wife, now awake, quietly walked in. Still immersed in his language lesson, he finished trying to translate the latest English phrase he'd been given into Kalderash Romani: ‘The boys are supposed to play music at the feast.’ It took him a second but then he was fairly confident and gave it a shot. "Le shave si te bashaven ande slava.”

He checked it against the answer key and then moved onto the next phrase: ‘The man has short, brown hair and green eyes.’ Without missing a beat, Callen typed, “O mursh si skurto melaxne bal thai zelene yakha.”

As he finished confirming his answer, Anna grabbed a seat and joined him at the kitchen table. She had a small smile playing on her lips. "Morning." Anna gave him a quick kiss before taking a seat. "You sound like you're getting more comfortable with the Romani."

He nodded, returning the smile. "Getting there," he said. His tone became tender with a touch of awe. "It's funny… ever since I started relearning Romani, I've been remembering little things. Like my mother saying, 'lasho shavo' to me while we were playing outside in the backyard when I was about four."

"Translation please," Anna prodded with a warmer smile. "I don't speak Romani."

"It means 'Good boy,'" he explained, a wistful glint in Callen’s eyes he did so. God, I miss her! And I barely even remember her.

Closing his laptop now that his wife was awake. they decided to kick off the day with a hot cup of coffee and some breakfast from Egg Slut. A perfect, low-key moment which was exactly what he needed that morning if he was honest.

After breakfast, Anna suggested something a little bit different for their day off, the pair going to 60out Escape Rooms in Westlake and doing the Red Alert escape room there. They'd just finished the escape room, a sense of accomplishment washing over them, when Callen's cell phone started to vibrate, shattering the euphoria.

Callen glanced at the screen, the familiar NCIS emblem staring back at him signalling that it was a call from the phone in the Operations Centre. He quickly excused himself, stepping away to take the call.

After the quick call, he rejoined Anna, a hint of regret in his eyes. Thankfully, she was extremely understanding, having been an operative for years herself. "Change of plans," he said. "Looks like we caught a case."

Anna nodded, a small smile on her face. "Well, no rest for the wicked. We'll make up for it later." The blonde leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Be careful."

He shot her a cheeky grin. "Don't I always?"

The blonde rolled her eyes, amused. "That sling says otherwise." She gave him a peck on the cheek. "Let me know if we can still do dinner tonight."

"Will do," he assured her. They were supposed to have dinner with the whole team this evening to announce the pregnancy.

Fifteen minutes later, Callen joined the rest of his team in the familiar surroundings of the Office of Special Projects. The usual camaraderie was slightly subdued, replaced by an air of tension as they made their way upstairs for the briefing. Hetty, positioned at the front, began to outline the details of the case.

"Thank you all for coming in so quickly," Hetty said, her tone holding a solemn weight. "We've lost one of our own." She pulled up a photo on the big screen of a young man with dirty blond hair and a lean, athletic physique. "This morning, Agent Jordan Miller from the NCISRA Los Angeles MCRT Team was discovered dead in his apartment in Echo Park when a neighbour noticed the door ajar."

"I'm assuming LAPD's secured the scene?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," his adoptive mother confirmed. She proceeded to pull up the Preliminary Autopsy Report. "The Initial Autopsy Report from Ms. Carlyle indicates death by asphyxiation. Likely waterboarding."

Callen's piercing blue eyes darkened slightly at the mention of waterboarding, his mind briefly revisiting the shadows of his own past.

Callen was in the dimly lit Interrogation classroom at Drona for a one-on-one session, the fourteen-year-old sitting restrained in a reclined metal chair, his youthful features betraying a mix of determination and apprehension. The head teacher, Mr. Pembrook, was standing a couple of feet away, beside a basin of water.

"Remember, this is about control. Control your fear, control your reactions," the head teacher pointedly reminded him.

"I must learn to live with the pain so I can fight through it," he echoed, that teaching having become second nature by now.

The air grew heavy as Mr. Pembrook approached Callen, placing a cloth over his face and starting to pour water over it. The sensation of drowning washed over Callen, the cloth becoming a suffocating shroud, every fibre seeming to tighten its grip as water cascaded over him.

As the water started seeping through the cloth, Callen's survival instincts kicked in, a desperate struggle against the restraints. His heart pounded, the sound echoing in the dimly lit room. Mr. Pembrook, unyielding, continued to pour water methodically, his eyes fixed on Callen's every reaction.

"Feelings cause pain, Seventeen. Eliminate them,"  the head teacher stated, his voice cutting through the room, distorted by the muffled sounds of Callen's struggles.

In the midst of the torment, Callen tried his best to focus on anything else, settling on a simple yet happy memory of him hanging out with his old foster brother, Raymond. It was hard to focus on anything though when his lungs were on fire and it felt like he was choking to death.

His mind screamed at him to give in, to make it end. Just one answer and it would hopefully be over. But if he broke now, Callen knew that the head teacher would make him regret it. 

After what felt like ages, Mr. Pembrook paused the water pouring, removing the cloth from his face for what was to be a short reprieve. Callen gasped for air, his chest heaving as he tried to regain some semblance of composure. "That all you got?" the teenager just managed to get out in response.

Mr. Pembrook, the man's demeanour unwavering, didn't give an inch. "No, Seventeen, that was just the warm-up," the man stated with his usual eery stillness. "Now, tell me your date of birth."

Callen, having gone through this before, replied with a fake date. If he wouldn't reveal something so small, he wouldn't tell something big. "August 8, 1976."

Mr. Pembrook arched a brow at the lie. "Then we have an issue, Seventeen," he said, his tone carrying a subtle threat. "That doesn't align with our records. Tell me your birthdate or you'll be reacquainted with the cloth."

Not wanting to give in yet, Callen stuck to the false narrative. "I told you the truth, sir. It's August 8, 1976."

With a stern look, Mr. Pembrook placed the cloth back over Callen's face and resumed the enhanced interrogation. The water hit him and the classroom echoed with the muffled sounds of him convulsing, trying to fight off the cloth and water. Trying to breathe. The metallic restraints bit into his wrists as he thrashed against them, desperation clawing at him as he fought for air.

After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Pembrook once again stopped pouring, lifting the drenched cloth from Callen's face. Gasping for air, Callen's chest heaved as the teen lightly trembled in the restraints, a silent plea for reprieve etched on his face.

The classroom air was thick with tension as the head teacher eyed him. "Now, Subject Seventeen, I'll ask you again. When is your birthday?"

As the water continued dripping off his drenched face, his gaze, once defiant, flickered with a trace of vulnerability. Still, Callen shook his head resolutely, determined to not break even as he desperately wanted it to stop.

"Good," the head teacher acknowledged. "We're shaping operatives here, not quitters. You must persevere, Seventeen, not capitulate." Grabbing the cloth again, Mr. Pembrook put it back on Callen's face, the macabre dance resuming.

In the present, Callen's distant gaze lingered for a moment, the vivid memories of his troubled past momentarily clouding his blue eyes. He took a deliberate, deep breath, grounding himself.

"Rough way to go," Rountree remarked solemnly.

"Became popular `cause it doesn't leave marks," Deeks pointed out. "Maybe the perps needed Agent Miller for something and it went wrong."

"Yeah," he agreed, his tone a little detached.

Sam and Hetty subtly shared a look of concern but rather than making a big deal of it, his partner opted to just refocus the conversation. "We have to consider the possibility that our operations have been compromised," he said.

Callen, doing his best to focus on the mission at hand, nodded. "Unfortunately, Sam's right. Miller's death does raise concerns about operational security. Do we know what he's been working on?"

"Not yet," Hetty said. "Though his supervisor, Agent Leticia Flores, is on the way to the Boatshed as we speak to brief us."

Kensi, leaning against the table slightly, said, "We need to tighten our digital security too. If they got to Miller, they might have gained access to sensitive intel."

Hetty nodded, acknowledging Kensi's' point. "Indeed, Ms. Blye. You and Mr. Callen will work with the cyber division on our digital infrastructure to that end," she stated. "We can't afford any leaks."

He and Kensi nodded, understanding the importance. Even if they were both getting a little fed up with being stuck at the office. "Understood," he said.

Taking charge, Sam declared, "Deeks and I will handle the SSA Flores' interview at the Boatshed." The former Seal then turned to the junior agents. "Fatima, Rountree, you two go speak with Agent Miller's family. See if they know anything or if he mentioned anything unusual recently."

"Understood," Fatima replied with a resolute nod.

Rountree mirrored the gesture. "Got it, Sam."

As the team dispersed to handle their assigned tasks, Sam shot Callen a no-nonsense look that clearly said, "We'll talk later." Callen, not particularly looking forward to that chat, gave a little shrug. I'm fine, Big Guy.

Chapter 72: Parental Declarations

With the doors to the Operations Centre closing, Callen and Kensi began methodically sifting through Agent Miller's extensive list of worked cases. The support personnel, primarily settled near the entrance to the Ops Centre, had their attention divided between aiding various field teams and ensuring their cyber security was fully up and operating as it should.

The sound of keyboard clicks and soft discussions filled the room as Callen and Kensi meticulously tried to find any intel their field team could use.

As the morning unfolded, Sam and Deeks spoke with Miller's boss, Agent Flores. His partner then caught Callen's attention over their comms. "Yo, G! We might have something here."

He turned on his device and replied. "Hey, what's up?"

"We just finished speaking with Miller's supervisor, Agent Flores," Sam started to explain.

"Turns out, Agent Miller wanted to talk to SSA Flores yesterday," Deeks chimed in over their comms. "Asked if she had a minute."

"And?" he inquired. Just get to the point.

"The MCRT was slammed with a protection detail for a Marine Major home on Terminal Leave," Sam continued, "and Flores had just been briefed on a new threat to their protectee from her SFA, Agent Synder."

"Flores brushed him off, asked if they could talk later," Deeks added. "Miller said that waiting another day wouldn't hurt, so Flores dropped it. But now, Flores feels terrible about the whole thing."

"Alright," he replied. "See what else you can find out. Maybe Miller mentioned what he wanted to discuss to someone else."

About an hour later, Callen received a call from Fatima, who he assumed was calling to finally give him a sit-rep on their canvas and witness interviews. Hopefully, they have something, 'cause we have squat.

"Callen, we hit a dead end," Fatima said with a note of frustration. "Miller's family and neighbours aren't giving us much to work with."

"It's like they're all on high alert or something," Rountree said.

"Yeah," Fatima agreed. "They're all holding on by a metaphorical thread." She sighed. "We tried to dig deeper into Miller's recent activities and connections, but we got nothing suspicious or unusual."

He sighed, attempting to think of a play. "Alright, stick with CSU and get that forensics report ASAP. Maybe that'll give us something."

"Sure thing, Callen!" Fatima assured him before ending the phone call.

Callen pocketed his cell phone, exchanging a brief glance with Kensi before refocusing on the document he'd been in the middle of reading.

At noon, he and Kensi went to a café a couple of blocks away and grabbed themselves some sandwiches, chips, and water for lunch. Sam and the others were going to grab some grub from a food truck near the Boatshed, seeing as they were there talking to the rest of Miller's team members still.

Hetty's piercing gaze followed him as he and Kensi made their way back upstairs. As he neared her office, she gestured for Callen to join her in her office, away from the hum of activity at the auxiliary stations and up in the Operations Centre.

"Callen," Hetty began in her usual measured tone, "a moment if you will."

He nodded, noting that the petite Operations Manager hadn't used her typical, more formal address. Whatever she wants to talk about, it's personal. He gave Kensi a quick glance. "Go ahead, Kens. I'll catch up in a few."

"Okay," Kensi agreed with a small nod. She then left as he walked over to his adoptive mother. His expression was a mix of curiosity and mild concern. "What's up?"

Hetty gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. "Well, I was hoping you could tell me, Dear. You seemed a little distracted earlier."

He complied, taking a seat in the chair he'd spent a lot of time in over the years. The air in the office felt charged with unspoken words, a familiar tension whenever more personal matters popped up and intertwined with their professional lives.

Callen took a moment to consider what to tell his adoptive mother. Then again, there wasn't really a reason to hold back. She knew most of the situation regarding his alma mater already even if she wasn't privy to specifics. "Just remembered something from Drona, but I'm handling it."

Hetty nodded, acknowledging the situation. "I know, Son. Still, recent events evidently stirred up some painful reminders. I simply wanted to check in."

Callen gave his adoptive mother a small, reassuring smile. "I appreciate the concern, Mom, but I'm fine. Really. My head's in the game."

Her eyes held a mix of skepticism and understanding. "It's not your resilience that's in question, Callen. Facing one's pain head-on and cauterizing the wounds - it's true bravery. Pushing it aside and ignoring it just, um, leads to more heartbreak."

He leaned back in the chair. "I get it, Mom, I do."

"Very well," she remarked. "Just remember… scars remind us where we've been. They don't have to dictate where we're going." Hetty smiled proudly at him and continued. "You've come so far, Dear, letting people behind that wall you've been rebuilding and rebuilding around yourself." She leaned forward. "Lean on your team; they care for you."

He nodded. "Yeah, I know. I trust them." And he did. It was still a bit hard to talk about his feelings, but that wasn't anything to do with them. They'd gone to bat for him many times over the years, even when he'd gone rogue chasing scraps of himself.

Satisfied with his response, Hetty nodded and said, "Good. Now, off you go. We don't want to keep Ms. Blye waiting too long."

He smirked as he started to stand up. "Yeah, wouldn't want her to think I've left her to tackle all the, uh, riveting document reading solo."

She rolled her eyes in amusement. "You'll be off light duty soon, Dear. You can survive another day or two and your shoulder will thank you for it."

Getting back to work after his lunch, Callen was able to find evidence on Miller's cell phone that he had been receiving threatening messages from a burner. There were several e-mails telling him to drop whatever he had been looking into. Kensi was also able to recover quite a bit of Miller's recent internet search history and found multiple searches regarding a seemingly abandoned property in Lincoln Heights.

A series of phone calls ensued, Callen reaching out to several of his contacts in both the FBI and DEA to see if anything was on their radar that could possibly be connected. Unfortunately, that was turning out to mostly be a waiting game.

Considering they had found a single partial fingerprint at the crime scene but still had nothing to compare it to, it all felt like a waiting game.

It didn't appear to be an official case of Miller's but it seemed that the man had inadvertently come across information that made him a target. Despite the threats, Miller clearly refused to comply with the individual's demands. It was also pretty clear, given the apparent waterboarding, that whoever it was had wanted to know just how much Miller knew and if the man had told anyone about it.

By the time the clock neared 1730, the team found themselves at a standstill, lacking leads. They all decided to resume the investigation the next morning, not expecting to make much more progress if any that evening. Callen wasn't holding out much hope for his contacts to suddenly get back to him with actionable intelligence either.

As the current team, Nell, and Eric all sat down for dinner that evening at The Capital Grille, the warm glow of the restaurant's lights enveloped the group's table, casting a comforting aura over their gathering.

Callen hesitated slightly, glancing at Anna. She nodded encouragingly, sensing what he was trying to ask. Do you want to say it or should I? Arkady was coming over for dinner the next day and she would take the lead then. Hopefully, the man would react better than he had to Callen asking for Anna's hand.

His voice softened. "We love each other."

Arkady shook his head, a touch of resignation in his voice. "So why ruin it? Live together. Make baby. No, I cannot recommend that either. No. Sorry. Is best for both of you."

Then again, the older Russian had completely changed his tune and likely was going to be ecstatic about becoming a grandfather.

So, shortly after the waitress took their orders, Callen, trying to sound casual despite the excitement he was feeling, shared the news. "So, Anna and I have something to tell you guys," he announced. His gaze then shifted between the familiar faces of his team-turned-family. "We, uh, we're expecting."

The pregnancy announcement hung in the air, momentarily silencing the lively chatter at the dinner table. Each person processed the news in their own way.

Sam, ever the big brother, instantly broke into a wide grin, clapping him firmly on the back. "Congratulations, man!" he said before turning to Anna. "You too Anna."

"That's amazing news, you two!" Kensi beamed. "Congratulations."

"You're pregnant?" Rosa asked with a big grin. "That's wonderful!"

Nell's face was lit up with an enormous grin. "Wow, a mini-Callen or mini-Anna! This is amazing, guys. I'm really happy for you two."

Eric was grinning from ear to ear as well. "Yeah, totally! This is like discovering a new tech gadget, only like a gazillion times better."

He rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. Some things never change.

Deeks, with a twinkle in his eye, playfully lifted his water glass in mock cheers. "Here's to the tiny ninja in the making!" the blond remarked, his grin contagious as the whole table erupted in laughter.

"That's going to be one super lucky kid," Rountree said with a wide grin. "Full stop." He then gestured to Kensi. "And you've already got a playmate."

Fatima nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "Hell yeah! This is incredible. Congratulations you two, seriously."

Seated to Callen's left, Hetty cast a warm, proud smile at him. "Another new addition to our family here. Congratulations, my dears."

Anna, taking Callen's right hand, blushed. "Thanks, everyone. We're thrilled."

"If a little nervous," he admitted with a lopsided grin. It was a blend of emotions that he could only equate to when he'd met his father for the first time as an adult. It was all a little overwhelming. In a good way.

"And that too," his wife agreed, her eyes reflecting a blend of excitement and a touch of apprehension. "But mostly excited."

His adoptive mom's eyes gleamed with a mixture of warmth and wisdom as she looked directly between them. "Parenthood is a mission unlike any other, filled with challenges and triumphs. Embrace it with the same resilience you bring to your work, and you will do fine. I have no doubt you are both up to the task.

Anna dipped her head slightly, smiling. "Well, thank you for the vote of confidence."

He was still grinning. "Yeah, thanks, Mom. I'm gonna be counting on it."

The moment Callen referred to Hetty as 'Mom' hung in the air, a quiet understanding echoing around the table. The group, well aware of the pair's history, were surprised he had finally voiced it but understood how close they'd been for years. For his part, Callen was glad that nobody there made a big deal about it.

Kensi flashed them a knowing smile. "Well, I totally get it. When we adopted Rosa, I thought parenting would be about staying one step ahead of her, just like our career, but it's just not. That's part of the fun though."

"And if you listen to my mother," Deeks quipped without missing a beat, "parenting's like being pecked to death by a bunch of chickens."

He and Anna both let out a laugh at the description of parenting. It wasn't necessarily comforting, but Mama Deeks was exactly the type to say that sort of thing.

"Yeah, that sounds like something that Grandma would say," Rosa remarked, a lilt of amusement in her voice.

Sam shot Callen a cheeky yet genuine smile. "Mama Deeks ain't wrong. You'll get what she meant after Lowercase G gets here," he said, a subtle hint of nostalgia in his eyes as he no doubt recalled his own experiences with parenthood.

He gave Sam an amused yet dubious look. "Uh-huh."

As the chatter and laughter continued around the table, Anna leaned against him and his heart swelled with warmth and a profound sense of gratitude for the large, slightly dysfunctional family surrounding him. I hope they all know how I feel about them. I know I never really vocalize it.

Chapter 73: Tea, Taps, and Troubles

Callen and Anna's morning was busy, the pair enjoying a light breakfast together after an early morning phone call to Anna's cousin Ekaterina as it was her birthday. The time difference made it a bit difficult but Callen was glad the two women were in touch. Ekaterina seemed nice enough and it evidently made his wife happy. Even more so now that Anna's morning sickness had more or less gone away completely.

That didn't mean they weren't dealing with setting up the nursery and trying to pick a name for the baby. Now, that seemed almost impossible. They couldn't even settle on a Russian or more American name. Not to mention, if they followed traditional Russian naming conventions their son or daughter's middle name would be Grigorievich or Grigorievna. He found it hard to find something he liked that flowed with the patronymic. It also felt weird to have their kid be the only one with an American name, though. At least the ultrasound the next day meant only half the names to debate.

His wife got called into work early, responding to an amber alert, so he was left to his own devices for a bit. Knowing that he had to go into work anyway, he decided to go in early and handle some paperwork.

Walking into OSP, he quickly noticed that the light in Hetty's office was on. She was at the office already as well apparently and, by the look of things, was right in the middle of making herself a pot of tea.

Smiling, he walked over to his adoptive mother's office, coming to a stop in front of Hetty's desk. A light floral and fruity aroma filled the room. It was an unmistakable scent he'd come to recognize from countless shared moments with her over tea both as a teen and as an adult. "Darjeeling?" he deduced.

"Va," she confirmed with a pleased smile. Alright, I guess we're getting some Romani practice in this morning. Naturally, she was aware of his attempt to relearn his mother Clara's heritage language. Hetty indicated the teapot to her left with her hand. "Manges cháiyo?" (Indeed. Would you like some?)

"Va, mangav tut!” he said, nodding appreciatively. His Kalderash Romani wasn't that good yet so it took him a moment to grasp. Darjeeling happened to be one of his preferred teas when he wasn't drinking Red Rose or Twinings and getting quips about him 'tasting the paper' as a result. "Sar san?" (Yes, please! How are you?)

"Lashi sim, nayis túke." She got up and went to grab a second teacup for him. "Thai tu?" (I'm fine, thank you. And yourself?)

He gave a small nod. "Mishto, nayis." (Good, thanks.)

Hetty passed him the cup of hot tea, shooting him an approving look. "Nai bilasho," she said with an impressed tone. "Tu sikos fúgo." (Not bad. You're learning quickly.)

"Me probisarav," he quipped with a smirk. Callen then eyed the large bottle of Michoacán agave nectar she was bringing out, well aware that he liked it. Hell, he had snuck some from her gym locker once. "Mind if I snag some of that, Ma?" (I try.)

Hetty playfully rolled her eyes. "I wasn't aware that there was anyone else here," she quipped as she handed him the bottle of sweetener. "You always did have a knack for finding your way to the good stuff."

He chuckled, pouring a small amount into his tea. "Old habits die hard, I suppose," he quipped, happily taking a sip of the hot drink. The Darjeeling paired great with the sweetness of the agave, as far as he was concerned.

His adoptive mother settled back into her chair, sipping her own tea. A warm, subtle smile graced her lips as she regarded him. "Congratulations once again, Dear, on the approaching fatherhood. Have you two settled on any names yet?"

He took another sip of his tea, the warmth of the drink soothing his senses. "We're still figuring that part out," he admitted. "It's turning out to be a little more challenging than we anticipated given the cultural mix."

Hetty leaned back in her chair, a glint of understanding in her eyes. "I take it you two have been unable to settle on an Eastern European or American name?"

He dipped his head slightly. "Yeah," he confirmed.

Hetty took a thoughtful sip of her tea before speaking, "Naming a child is a significant decision, especially with diverse cultural backgrounds in the mix. Perhaps a fusion of both cultures is in order?"

He considered Hetty's suggestion, a contemplative look in his eyes. "That's not a bad idea, actually, doing a name from both. Anna and I will just have to toss around some names and see which one clicks."

They continued chatting for a couple more minutes before Hetty's phone rang and he made his way to his desk to get some paperwork done before the others arrived and he was back up in the Operations Centre.

Callen texted Sam, as they usually carpooled, and then focused on the paperwork. The quiet hum of the bullpen was interrupted by the occasional tap of his good hand on the keyboard as he chipped away at the Federal 360 Personnel Evaluations for his team.

Sam finally walked into the bullpen, glancing at him as he took a seat at his own desk. "Took your own ride in today, huh, G? Got tired of my driving?"

"Morning," he greeted. He then glanced up from his work laptop and shot his partner a cheek grin. "And your words, Secret Squirrel, not mine."

His partner chuckled, lightly shaking his head. "Alright, G. I see how it is. I'll try not to take it personally. Still a better driver than you."

"I'm a great driver," he replied in mock offensive.

Sam leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. "Great driver? The jury's still out on that one, G. You've received how many traffic tickets?"

Callen chuckled softly, closing his laptop. "Offensive driving, Sam!" he countered. "It's a valuable skill in our line of work."

His partner rolled his eyes, amused. "Yeah, when we’re chasing suspects. Not because you're running late to a Lakers game."

Now it was Callen's turn to roll his eyes. "I can't believe Hetty put me in comedy traffic school. I wasn't kidding when I said I would prefer another encounter with the Libyans who took us off the trawler."

Sam chuckled. "Nate may have contributed to that idea, resident scofflaw, and you did kinda have it coming. Three convictions in eighteen months, G.” The former SEAL held up three fingers. "Three.”

"The need for speed," he quipped with a grin. It had made Hetty's point though and he had received a lot fewer tickets since then.

Soon the others began to filter in, Fatima going off about the latest P.S.B who'd cut her off in the parking lot of the coffee shop on the way in that morning.

Trying to figure out their next play, his mind kept on going back to the abandoned property in Lincoln Heights. We need to figure out what the connection is between that property and Miller., "We're missing something," he remarked. "Let's dig more into the abandoned property in Lincoln Heights. Miller was interested in the place for a reason."

"Maybe Deeks and I should talk to Declan Murphy again," Sam said. "I felt like he was holding something back when we talked to him before."

"You're not the only one," Deeks agreed.

"Alright," he quickly agreed. He then turned toward Fatima and Rountree. “Why don't you two go speak with SSA Flores again? See if you can get anything else out of her."

"On it," Fatima said with a small nod.

"Hopefully she's remembered something," Rountree remarked, not exactly sounding overly optimistic.

As the field team dispersed, Callen and Kensi headed upstairs to Ops. They went back over the backgrounds of both Murphey and Flores, hoping to find something the team could use as leverage during their interviews that was missed before.

Then, the update came in - the team was at the Boatshed with both witnesses. Callen quickly pulled up the video feed for both interrogation rooms on one of the screens so he and Kensi could keep tabs on things while they surfed through a mountain of street camera footage. He really couldn't wait until he was cleared for full duty again.

After sitting in the interrogation room for a bit, Murphy ended up giving them a whole new direction to look in. "I already told you. Miller didn't have issues with anybody. We all really liked it. Well, except for Ethan."

"Who's Ethan?" Deeks asked.

"Ethan Vaughn," Murphy clarified. "He's a former coworker. Left the agency like four or five months ago."

"Why did he leave?" Sam inquired.

"He had his reasons," Murphy said. "The guy didn't really share much. Just mentioned wanting a change, something different."

Sam exchanged a quick glance with Deeks before turning back to Murphy. "Did Miller and Vaughn have any issues before he left?" Sam probed.

Murphy nodded. "Those two? Yeah, they were always disagreeing about how to handle things. Miller was very by the book but Vaughn liked to push boundaries a bit."

"A bit?" Deeks said. "What exactly does that mean?"

Kensi quickly passed the new information to Fatima and Rountree over their comms. Callen then watched as Rountree brought it up with Agent Flores who easily confirmed the strained relationship between the pair.

He swiftly looked up Vaughn's latest known address and sent it to Sam's cell phone so they could go and pick the new suspect up.

As Sam and Deeks left to bring Ethan Vaughn into the Boatshed for questioning, the atmosphere in Ops crackled with anticipation. With any luck, this lead would pan out and they'd actually get some answers. Especially as Callen was now able to make a call and request to have Vaughn's fingerprints from his old personnel file be compared to the one that CSU had found on the tap in Miller's bathroom. That was going to take a few hours though, even with it being rushed.

He and Kensi continued sifting through street camera footage. Most of it was footage of useless nonsense. Still, Kensi eventually found footage showing Vaughn's presence at the property, increasing suspicions about the man's involvement in Miller's murder and whatever Miller had found out.

As they continued to scrutinize the footage, Callen's mind raced with questions. What had Vaughn been doing at the property, and how does it tie into Miller's murder? Is Vaughn working with anyone?

Sam's voice echoed over their comms with a hint of concern. "There's no sign of Vaughn here. He may have run already."

"Alright, well -" he replied over the comms.

Before he could finish his sentence, shots rang out, reverberating through the team's comms and sending shivers down their spines. Tension hung in the air as he and Kensi exchanged uneasy glances.

"Sam?" he said, hoping for a response. "Deeks?"

"What's going on?" Kensi chimed in.

He tried again. “Sam, Deeks, do you copy?”

Anxiety took over them both until they heard a familiar voice crackle over the comms. "We're good," Deeks informed them. "Vaughn tried to make a run for it, and things got a bit hairy. He's down, but we're fine."

"We need EMTs," Sam said. "Vaughn's bleeding, but we've secured the area."

"Copy that," Callen replied, relief washing over him. I should be out in the field, having my partner's six. Can't wait until I'm cleared for full duty again.

With the immediate crisis averted, both he and Kensi continued to sift through information on Ethan Vaughn. Meanwhile, Sam and Deeks tried to squeeze answers out of Vaughn in interrogation. They needed to break this guy and get answers.

The former agent was stubborn though, leaving the entire team frustrated with the lack of a breakthrough.

They felt like they'd caught a little break though when Kensi, doing the usual thorough back-check, stumbled upon a storage locker that Vaughn had taken over a few years back after his grandmother passed away. The discovery prompted Callen to send both Rountree and Fatima to check the place out.

The duo found a large stash of ephedrine in the storage locker, adding another layer of complexity to the case. It was clear they were dealing with drug dealing and maybe even some low-level cartel connections, but Vaughn remained tight-lipped during the interrogation, not giving them an inch.

It was a long wait but, about four hours after he put the request in, Callen got an e-mail with the Fingerprint Analysis Report. Not wanting to waste any more time, he swiftly opened up the file and skimmed the results.

`Dear Agent Callen,

We have completed the requested analysis of the fingerprints collected from the crime scene related to Case #28765.'

The forensic analyst's report was a little long but Callen quickly found the section of it that he was the most interested in: 'Conclusion: The fingerprint recovered from the crime scene corresponds to the fingerprint records of Ethan Patrick Vaughn.'

Glad that they had some physical evidence at last, Callen notified the team over their comms that the fingerprint on Miller's tap was a match to Vaughn's.

With little progress in getting Vaughn to talk, the decision was then made to book him on charges related to the illicit substances and the death of Agent Miller and hand the case back off to the MCRT. While they'd been unable to find the puppet master, at least Vaughn wasn't escaping justice.

Chapter 74: Name Games and Morning Banter

First thing Tuesday morning, Callen and Anna got up, enjoying some breakfast bagels at their kitchen table, the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the room. After working straight through the weekend, he and his team had been given that Monday off and now it was back to work.

Anna sipped her drink and shot him a pointed look. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad my father's on board, but… I just really don't want a repeat of when we were planning the wedding." She shook her head and muttered under her breath. "Takoye boleznennoye ispytaniye." (Such a painful ordeal.)

He exhaled at his wife's comment; neither of them had been happy with the situation. There was a reason they'd spontaneously opted for a courthouse wedding. "We could always stick Hetty or Roberta on him," he suggested, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he spread cream cheese onto his bagel. He was more than willing to do that and prove a point. The older man just kept overstepping and when left unchecked it felt suffocating. Why is he trying to suggest names for our baby?

"It's tempting," Anna said. Her expression softened slightly. "So, have you thought any more about baby names since the ultrasound yesterday?"

A contemplative expression crossed his face as he took a bite of his bagel. "Some," he said. "I still think Hetty might've had the right idea about giving our daughter more of a cross-cultural name."

His wife nodded in agreement. "I do too, Grisha." She hummed. "We could maybe go with something like Viktoriya, Darya or… Alisa for the first name. They're Russian but work well in English. What do you think?"

He took a moment to consider the names his wife was throwing into the ring, sipping his coffee. "Viktoriya and Alisa… those have a nice ring to it." He arched a brow. "A lot nicer than your father's suggestion." He wasn't naming his kid something like Nadezhda or Yevgeniya when they were going to raise the child in California.

Anna rolled her eyes. "They weren't bad per se, they just don't exactly go with the last name Callen. And we've already decided to go with that and not Nikolaev."

"True," he readily agreed. Callen wasn't part of his birth name, but it was what he had gone by for the better part of his life and the last name that Anna took when they got married back at the end of May. Sharing a last name was an easy choice.

They kept chatting for a few minutes and then they heard a vehicle pull up outside. A couple of short honks reached his ears, signalling his partner's arrival. Callen, gear in hand, kissed his wife goodbye. "Uvidimsya posle raboty." (See you after work.)

"Bud' ostorozhen," she replied, leaning in for another quick kiss. "I ne pereuserdstvuy s plechom." (Be safe out there. And don't overdo it with your shoulder.)

He gave his wife a slightly lopsided smile and playfully rolled his eyes. "Ya postarayus' ne pereuserdstvovat'," he assured her. (I'll try to not overdo it.)

Anna nodded and said, "Luchshe ty.” (You better.)

With that, Callen headed out the door, exchanging a couple of words with his partner before they started the drive to the Office of Special Projects.

Entering the bullpen, they found Deeks and Kensi at their desks, chatting about the upcoming day and something about the Olvera Street. The team had yet to catch a case, allowing them some downtime and as they'd seen on their way in, Rountree and Fatima were training in the gym.

"Aloha kakahiaka, boys!" Deeks greeted them.

Kensi, sitting on the couch, chimed in. "Good morning."

Sam nodded subtly as he walked over to the coffee bar. "Morning, you two."

"Morning," he replied with a small smile, making his way over to his desk. He pulled the chair out. "So, what's this about Olvera Street?"

Kensi turned toward him with a pleased smile. "Oh, we were just discussing Rosa's field trip there today with her History class."

Sam finally settled into his own desk, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. "That sounds like fun," he said. "Has Rosa been there before?"

Kensi shook her head. "No, although, she's been looking forward to it. Way more than the upcoming trip to the Natural History Museum."

"Smart kid," he quipped. Privately, he empathized. Rosa was an orphan adopted into a new culture. As much as Rosa loved her family, the teenager probably missed her birth culture somewhat. Despite their best efforts, there were limits to how much Kensi and Deeks could bridge that gap. "Though, the museum does have some fairly interesting exhibits. Anna and I were actually thinking of checking it out soon ourselves."

Deeks flashed a grin, leaning back in his chair slightly. "Oh, the museum ain't bad, but Olvera Street's got that authentic vibe, you know? Plus, street tacos."

"I'm always up for some good street food," he agreed.

As they continued chatting and sharing some new anecdotes about their families, Rountree’s voice cut through the morning chatter from the top of the stairs. Callen's thoughts momentarily flickered to when Eric had still worked with them. "Hey, guys!" The junior agent then gestured towards the Operations Centre. "We've got a case. Oh, and Hetty said one point for the guy who gets up here first."

All the guys eyed each other intently, a competitive spark igniting in their expressions. Without a moment's hesitation, they beelined for the stairs, engaging in a playful but determined jostle to be the first one to walk into the Operations Centre.

The guys filed into the Operations Centre in a bit of a whirlwind. Callen walked in first, Sam following closely behind him, and Deeks bringing up the rear. Kensi then walked in, shaking her head in mild amusement.

Fatima, who was standing beside Hetty, raised an amused eyebrow at the three guys. "Looks like the competition's still fierce, huh?"

Kensi rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. "Old habits die hard, apparently."

"It would appear so," Hetty said, a slight glint in her eyes that let Callen know she also found it more than a little bit amusing.

"So, what's up?" he inquired, deciding to redirect the conversation and focus on the task at hand.

Fatima pulled some security footage up onto the big screen. "Meet Lieutenant Colonel Haley Prescott, head of logistics at Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton."

"Ouch," Kensi remarked as they all watched the woman in question fall out of her chair and onto the hard floor of the office.

"I'll say," Fatima readily agreed. "As you all can see, the colonel didn't quite make it through her staff meeting this morning."

"That looks like more than a bump on the head," Deeks said, gesturing to the screen.

Rountree’s eyes flickered to the tablet in his hand, quickly scanning a document. "Uh, yeah. The colonel sustained a major concussion from the fall. She is still hospitalized and unconscious."

He tilted his head. "That sounds like a medical case."

"True," Fatima said. "Except, for the past week, the colonel has been concerned about somebody trying to kill her. They tried to treat her at the hospital on base before transferring her to Ronald Reagan UCLA this morning due to their toxicology department.” 

"Has she given the MPs any names?" Sam asked.

"Uh, no. Nothing concrete yet, but it's definitely causing concern," Fatima said. "She's been requesting security escorts to and from her car since Wednesday."

Kensi gave a pensive little hum. "Could be related to a personnel issue," she suggested.

"Or it could be related to all the weapons for the Pacific fleet," he proposed.

"Prescott oversees 500,000 square feet of ammunition storage," Sam said. "Including Tomahawks for our guided missile destroyers."

Deeks nodded briskly. "Yeah, you disrupt command, you're instantly tossing a monkey wrench into all base operations."

"Not to mention the potential use of a diversion to steal from the weapons cache," he added.

"Which is why we got the Bat-Signal," Fatima replied, trying for some levity.

"And that is also why the SecNav called earlier to inform me she wants this matter brought to a swift resolution," Hetty informed them.

"Of course she does," he remarked dryly, not remotely surprised by Washington already trying to apply pressure. "Well, the good news is it's no longer rush hour on the I-5." The only real downside to living in L.A is the insane traffic.

As Callen finished his comment about L.A traffic, Sam smiled wryly. "Thankfully, one less problem on our plate," his partner said, his tone matching Callen's.

His eyes narrowed with determination as he decided how to handle things. "Alright, Sam, let's take the base." Sam nodded and he turned toward Deeks and Rountree. "You two head to the hospital. Check on Prescott's condition, talk to the medical staff, and see if you can get any intel from the colonel's family."

"On it," Deeks replied seriously.

"Hospital duty it is," Rountree remarked.

He turned to Kensi and Fatima. "I need you two to gather as much background intel as you can on Prescott and sort through her digital life."

"Copy that," the women chorused.

As his team began to disperse for work, Hetty coolly caught his attention. "Mr. Callen." He turned around to meet the petite woman's gaze. "I trust you will keep me apprised of any significant developments."

He instantly nodded. "Of course, Hetty." With that, he turned and made his way out of the Operations Centre, the secure-access door closing behind him.

Chapter 75: Cipher Rings, Marine Things

Smoothly catching up with his partner near the bullpen, Callen and Sam navigated the familiar roads leading to Camp Pendleton. As his partner drove them, the hum of the Challenger's engine was occasionally punctuated by snippets of conversation between him and Sam, their voices a steady undercurrent beneath the sound of the tires on the pavement.

He glanced out at the passing scenery, the rows of buildings and California fan palms that flanked the road and the occasional glimpses of the Pacific Ocean and Sam's jazz playing on the radio. His mind was buzzing, his earlier conversation with Anna running through his head alongside other things.

He glanced over at Sam with a mixture of curiosity and slight vulnerability. "Hey, when you found out Michelle was pregnant with Aiden, were you scared?"

His partner's gaze softened slightly, a reminiscent smile playing on his lips. "Terrified, to be honest, man. It's a whole new ball game, G, becoming a parent. But you learn as you go, and you figure it out together."

He nodded, taking in his partner's words. "Yeah, just like any op, right?"

Sam chuckled at the analogy but nodded. "Exactly, Brother. You adapt, overcome, and rely on your team, on your family."

He leaned back in his seat. "Honestly, Sam, this whole thing has me feeling like a fish out of water and the kid's not even here yet," Callen admitted. "I mean, I have no real reference point here and I just…"

Callen had resorted to playing poker because he didn't have a clue what to do with his own nephew. References like 'Where's Waldo?' still flew over his head, and things like Babar where he would unwittingly mispronounce the name having only seen it among Kamran's things. Those moments made him feel a bit stupid, especially when Sam and the others looked at him like he had to be messing with them.

"You're close," Eric announced over their comms. "According to the tracker, she's right inside the Grand Central Market."

"Yeah?" Sam replied without missing a beat. "Well, we're looking right inside the Grand Central Market - it's like trying to find Waldo."

"Who's Waldo?" he asked, genuinely confused. He didn't know any other agents or any witnesses by that name.

"Where's Waldo," Sam reiterated. "The kids' book."

Callen tried to keep his confusion off of his face at this point; apparently, this was yet another seemingly obvious thing everyone but him seemed to know.

"He's like a... goofy kid with a red and white striped shirt," Sam briefly explained. Not that it told him much. "You don't know Waldo?"

"Sounds very patriotic," he quipped, hoping to not seem embarrassed and move their conversation away from the topic. "Look, this story is a big break for Dana. She may be able to parlay this into an anchor desk."

Some foster parents, like Ms. Wilson had tried to catch him up a bit, but he was never with them for very long. And he just fell farther and farther behind. He hadn't realized it at the time, but Hetty had tried to do the same when he moved in. She had watched TV in the evenings with him, bought him his own books despite her sizeable library, and bought him a Walkman. That only helped with things geared more towards teenagers, however, leaving a lot of gaps in Callen's pop culture knowledge despite the effort.

"Feel like you'll mess up and are stuck playing catch-up?" Sam suggested, doing his best to understand where Callen was coming from.

"Yeah," he admitted, thinking back to when he was a little kid in the third grade.

On his ninth birthday, Callen trudged home to his latest foster placement from school, his small backpack slung over one shoulder. The weight of the day seemed to press on him, having stopped expecting anything for his birthday some time ago. He had never even received as much as a birthday card.

For Callen, the day simply lacked the typical childhood excitement. His current foster parents of three weeks, both dedicated intelligence officers with little time for sentimentality, weren't likely to break the trend, in his opinion. At least, they knew about the Drona Project which gave Callen a bit of a break from having to fake Dyslexia. Even if it was only temporarily.

As he walked into the house, he was immediately hit by the smell of homemade bread in the air. He placed his backpack neatly by the door and took off his shoes, wincing in discomfort as he bent over. Interrogations class at school had gotten rough and his right side was rather bruised where he'd been repeatedly struck with a baton. Upon starting at Drona, the class had quickly become his least favourite. Despite the physical toll though, he really wanted to do well in school.

The hum of conversation was coming from the main living area where his foster father was sitting and calling Callen to join them. Making his way over, he noticed his foster carers had a small box in front of them – a birthday present for me? With a curt nod from her husband, his foster mother, Jayne, handed him the gift, her lips curling into a small smile. "Happy birthday."

Surprised but happy, he opened the box to find some sort of sleek silver decoder ring, given the words on the packaging, inside. Despite the restrained atmosphere, his eyes were sparkling with joy. I've got my first piece of spy gear! Wicked!

"Thanks," he said, glancing between both adults. "You didn't have to get me nothing, but… thank you."

"It never hurts to get a little brain gaming in," his foster father, Andrew, remarked. "A sharp mind is a valuable asset, after all."

A warm smile spread across his face as he happily traced the gadget with his fingers. "It's great, really." This ring's so cool! You twist it, and the letters all line up, swapping one letter for another. The letters on the top are the real alphabet and then the letters on the bottom are the substitution key. I can make my own secret messages now. Oh, and if I practice lots, Mr. Pembrook will be super happy! He doesn't like it when I'm too slow at finishing my directives.

His foster father dipped his head slightly. "Good. Now, your social worker's coming by. You can't spill the beans. It's important you don't say anything about your training to her. It's part of the job, you understand?"

"Keep it simple and stick to the story Mr. Pembrook taught you," Jayne said with a practiced smile. "We don't want anyone getting the wrong idea, do we?"

"No," he agreed. Mr. Humphrey, who had moved him from Pasadena to Los Angeles to attend Drona, had recently handed off his case. The new social worker didn't know the truth though which was partly why he'd been temporarily placed with the Westwoods. Not that he knew that. "I'll stick to the story, promise."

His foster father nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, go clean up and get some of your homework done before Ms. Anderson gets here."

He nodded fervently, still smiling. "Yes, sir. Thanks again." Given the dismissal, Callen then hurried upstairs to do as ordered.

Bringing his thoughts back to the present, his partner slightly lowered the volume on the radio. The soft hum of the engine replaced the jazz notes. "Listen, G, don't sweat it. You're gonna be a great dad and it's okay to not have all the answers." The father of two scoffed. "Hell, I don't think any parent does. There's no manual. The important thing is you care enough to try."

He nodded, a small smile forming. "You're right, Big Guy." Callen smirked. "Besides, I have Uncle Sam for zero dark thirty phone calls and to make dress up in any and all embarrassing Disney costumes."

"Cute," Sam said sarcastically. "We both know you're a total softy for Kam and will be even more wrapped around your little girl's finger."

As they approached the entrance to Camp Pendleton, they flashed their NCIS shields, the guards granting them access reasonably quickly. Very familiar with the base, Sam swiftly located and parked them just outside of the NCISRA's office building.

Getting out of the Hellcat, the sprawling base hummed with the relentless activity of Marines, the rhythmic cadence of boots on concrete echoing through the air. Several Seabees were standing around, presumably discussing whatever project they were currently working on. The two field agents remained on alert as they made their way down to the logistics office to speak with Prescott's squad.

Just outside of the office, he and Sam were approached by a stern-looking officer, who greeted them with a brisk nod. "Agents Callen and Hanna, I assume?" the man asked, extending his hand. "I'm Captain Turner. Prescott's XO, First Lieutenant Rhys Whitman, told me to expect you."

He nodded. "That's us," he confirmed, shaking the man's hand firmly.

Sam followed suit, giving the captain a firm handshake. "We'd like to talk to you about Lieutenant Colonel Prescott if you have a moment."

"Follow me," the captain directed, leading them into the bustling logistics office. As he and his partner entered, the hum of conversation came to an abrupt stop, and curious glances met his and Sam's arrival.

They followed Captain Turner into his office and then the man gestured for Callen and Sam to each take a seat across from him.

"What can you tell us about the colonel?" Sam asked, immediately getting to the point of their visit to the Marine base.

Captain Turner leaned back in his chair, eyeing both agents intently. "Prescott is highly regarded here," he said. "She's fit, disciplined, and dedicated. Her sudden collapse was unexpected and worrying for all of us."

"I'm sure," he agreed. "So, did she seem under the weather at all or display any unusual behaviour before she collapsed?"

The captain sighed. "No. Not at all. In fact, she seemed perfectly fine up until the dizzy spell hit. We were all caught off guard by what happened."

Sam leaned forward, a serious expression on his face. "Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the past few days?" he inquired. "Any incidents, conflicts, or anyone behaving strangely around Prescott?"

The captain shook his head. "Apart from the escort details she's been requesting, no. It's all been fairly routine around here, if on the busier side."

Callen exchanged a glance with Sam before asking, "Any specific reason she requested the extra security? Something that stood out to her or raised concerns?"

The captain paused for a moment, then sighed. "She didn't share details, just that she was worried for her safety and she wanted to be proactive. I assumed it was merely a precautionary measure."

Sam dipped his head slightly. "Alright, Captain. Well, thanks for your time."

"We appreciate it," he added politely. "And, uh, we'll need access to her recent communications and to speak with her coworkers."

"Of course," the captain nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I want to help in any way I can. If you need anything, just ask."

As they left Captain Turner's office, Callen and Sam exchanged a quick glance, both men trying to come up with interview questions as they got ready to sit down with several of Prescott's co-workers. Hopefully, one of the Marines from her squad would actually be able to shed some light on why exactly she'd been concerned for her safety as of late.

Chapter 76: Web of Desperation

Standing back out in the logistics office's bullpen after their initial chat with Lieutenant Colonel Prescott's commanding officer, Callen and Sam quickly made a game plan and started interviewing the rest of Prescott's squadmates.

They received a lot of the same answers that they got from Captain Turner, so at least it appeared everyone was being honest. The lack of any new information really wasn't helping matters, however.

As Callen and Sam wrapped up their third interview, letting Corporal Russo return to his duties, Callen's cell phone buzzed with an incoming call. He glanced down at the screen, noting Deeks' name and picture on the call display. Answering the call, he held the phone to his ear. "Hey, Deeks. What've you got?"

"Hey," Deeks said. "The tox report for Prescott just came back positive for high levels of strychnine. Like, off-the-charts levels."

"The doctors seem hesitantly optimistic that she'll wake up though," Rountree added. "Even if she isn't out of the woods yet."

A knot formed in his stomach as he heard the news. "Well, it's something at least. And we already suspected poisoning. Any leads on how she was exposed?"

Rountree sighed. "Not yet," he replied. "Her parents didn't know anything."

"Me and Rountree are still sifting through the colonel's personal life," Deeks said. "Her phone shows she attended a Book 'Em event in Venice last week, though. At the Abbot Kinney Memorial Library."

"That's right before she started requesting the escorts," he pointed out. "Alright, keep me posted. We're still on base, conducting a few more interviews.

"Got it," Deeks chirped before ending the call.

Shoving his cell phone back into his pants pocket, he turned to his partner. "The tox screen came back. Strychnine poisoning."

Sam frowned. "This just got a lot more serious."

"Yeah," he agreed. "And apparently she attended an event at the library in Venice last week right before she became paranoid."

Keeping the new information in mind, Callen and Sam interviewed the two MPs who'd been working as Prescott's escort detail. Unfortunately, hitting yet another dead end. Whatever had spooked the colonel, she'd been very tight-lipped about it. The only new intel they'd managed to get was about a rather nondescript silver SUV that the colonel had mentioned seeing.

After their interviews with the MPs, he and Sam decided to head back up towards the main gate to grab a quick bite to eat at the Chow Hall. As they walked, the California sun cast long shadows across the base. His mind raced as he tried to figure out what their next move should be, deciding to contact Ops and have Kensi and Fatima start a Kaleidoscope search for that silver SUV, even if it was a bit of a Hail Mary.

As they stepped into the bustling Chow Hall, the smell of hot food wafted through the large room, making them even more hungry. The clatter of trays and the low hum of conversations surrounded Callen and Sam as they grabbed their own trays and joined the line. The pair eagerly loaded up with some grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad. They then grabbed a drink and headed over to one of the corner tables.

Sitting down at the table, Callen took a thoughtful bite of his chicken before eyeing his partner. "Any thoughts on where we go from here?" he asked.

Sam considered for a moment. "We need to look more into that Book 'Em event at the library. Find out who she interacted with when she was there."

"Yeah," he agreed. "And we might be able to cross-reference the attendees there with the civilian contractors who've recently worked here on base."

"It could be a dependant," Sam pointed out.

"True," he conceded, "but then the MPs would've likely recognized the SUV. I saw a Seabee unit when we got here earlier. They often work with civilian contractors."

His partner nodded and swallowed a bite of food. "Good point. And we'll probably have more luck with that than the Kaleidoscope search."

He took a sip of his drink. "Yeah."

After finishing their lunch at the Chow Hall, he and Sam both collected their trays and headed towards the Contracting Office to request the list of recent civilian contracts be sent to Kensi. Once that was handled, the pair made their way back to the parking lot just outside of the NCISRA building.

As they drove back to Los Angeles, the coastal scenery passing by, the pair listened to more of Sam's jazz, periodically chatting to pass the time. Kensi and Deeks both made a call to him as well, not that either one had much to add. If they had even a partial licence plate number, it would've really helped narrow things down. As it was, Kaleidoscope was trying to find a needle in a very, very large haystack.

The colonel's house didn't have any signs of tampering or anything either, which was a bit frustrating, to be honest. Callen had been hoping Deeks and Rountree would have at least found something. On the other hand, they did recover her laptop so Kensi and Fatima would hopefully find something on it they could use.

Upon returning to OSP, he and Sam both poured themselves a cup of coffee and joined Deeks and Rountree in the bullpen. They began chatting about whatever came to their minds as they waited to hear back from Kensi or Fatima about the colonel's laptop and the cross-referencing they'd requested.

A couple of hours later, Kensi and Fatima hurried down to the bullpen with a sense of urgency. Kensi was the first to speak up and get their attention. "Hey, so, we've got something. We found emails between Prescott and a civilian contractor from the list named Riley Kushniruk. Second generation Ukrainian-American."

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What were they talking about?"

"Seems like Colonel Prescott was trying to help Riley, offering support and urging him to seek treatment for some drug issues," Kensi explained. "But it also looks like Riley held a grudge, blaming the military for his father's death and his own struggles."

"His financials also show he had a bit of a gambling problem," Fatima added.

"Well, that's shocking!" Deeks quipped sarcastically.

"How do they even know each other?" Sam inquired.

Kensi's expression softened. "Riley's godfather was the colonel's late brother."

Rountree's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Fatima replied. "They grew up together, and went to the same high school."

"Captain Kushniruk was killed in action during a tour of Afghanistan a couple of years back," Kensi explained. "According to the After Action Report, he was shot pulling a member of his unit out of the line of fire."

He sighed. "And let me guess, it was Colonel Prescott."

"Unfortunately," Kensi confirmed, nodding gravely. "She survived her injuries thanks to the captain but by the time corpsmen arrived, he was already gone."

Deeks dipped his head slightly. "Riley clearly didn't take the news well."

Rountree got up off the couch, walking towards the small coffee bar at the back of the team's bullpen. "So, we have motive. But we still don't know how that connects to the Strychnine poisoning."

Sam leaned back in his chair slightly. "I don't know about that, but I do think it's time we bring Riley Kushniruk to the Boatshed for questioning."

Callen nodded in agreement. "Yeah. We should also dig deeper into Kushniruk's recent activities and contacts. We can't ignore the possibility of an accomplice." He turned to Deeks and Rountree. "You two, reach out to Kushniruk's remaining family. Sam and I will go pick him up and take him to the Boatshed."

After securing the necessary warrants, Callen and Sam hopped into the Challenger and headed to Riley Kushniruk's last known address.

Deeks and Rountree began contacting Kushniruk's living family, while Kensi and Fatima continued digging into the contents of the laptop.

Upon reaching Kushniruk's residence, they found the apartment quiet and seemingly deserted. Knocking on the door received no response, so he and Sam shared a quick glance before deciding to breach the door.

The apartment, though sparsely furnished, hinted at a troubled life. A photo of Riley with his father caught Callen's attention. The pair had clearly been close.

Their search led them to a bedroom where they discovered a hastily packed bag. It became evident that Riley Kushniruk was aware of their investigation.

He sighed and turned towards the bedroom door. Suddenly, a faint sound reached his ears - the unmistakable creak of a window being opened down the hall. He exchanged a brief, tense look with his partner.

Sam eyed him. "Let's split up and cut him off."

He nodded and the pair hastily rushed to catch up with their fleeing suspect.

He turned a corner outside just in time to see Riley disappearing through a doorway. Reacting quickly, he chased after the suspect into a cramped stairwell. The flickering fluorescent light overhead added to the tension as he closed the gap between them.

"Riley, it's over!" he called out. "We're federal agents. There's nowhere left to run."

Riley glanced over his shoulder, panic etched on his face. Ignoring the plea, he rushed up the stairs, desperation fuelling his every step. Callen just hoped Sam would catch up with the young man.

Climbing up in the stairwell, Callen and Kushniruk reached the top floor. The echo of their footsteps mingled with the distant hum of traffic outside. Kushniruk, realizing he was trapped, hesitated.

"Riley, it's over!" he urged, his tone firm. "Stop before this gets any worse."

Thankfully, Sam finally closed in from the opposite direction, effectively cutting off any escape route. "You don't want to do this, kid."

Callen locked eyes with the young man and made the switch to Ukrainian. He'd spent enough time in Ukraine over the years, repeatedly going between there and Moscow on work assignments, that the language still came quite easily to him. "Tvoi batʹko ne hotiv by tsʹoho." (Your father wouldn't want this.)

Kushniruk, cornered and defeated, immediately looked surprised at the Ukrainian. The young man then slowly raised both of his hands in surrender, dropping to his knees. "Ya znayu," he admitted softly. (I know.)

Sam started Mirandizing the much younger man, securing Kushniruk in handcuffs with an audible click. He and Sam then lead Kushniruk back down the outdoor stairwell and towards the black Challenger.

As they drove to the Boatshed, Kushniruk sat in the backseat, the young man's silence speaking volumes. The coastal scenery passed by in a quiet blur, leaving the young man with his thoughts.

Arriving at the Boatshed, he and Sam led Kushniruk into the interrogation room. The room's harsh lighting highlighted the weariness on Kushniruk's face, a stark contrast to the initial pursuit at the apartment complex.

Inside the main interrogation room, he took a seat directly across the table from Riley Kushniruk, his expression a mixture of empathy and determination. His partner stood nearby, observing the tense atmosphere.

"Riley, we need to understand what happened with Colonel Prescott," he said, his voice steady. He gestured vaguely to the room. "How'd we get here?"

Kushniruk's eyes flickered with a mix of guilt and despair. "I… I didn't mean for it to go this far. I just wanted her to hurt, to understand how I've felt since…"

Sam sighed. "Riley, revenge won't bring your dad back."

Kushniruk dipped his head slightly, swallowing a lump in his throat.

"My partner's right," he agreed. He then reached into the small drawer in front of him and pulled out the large legal pad and a ballpoint pen. He then slid it across the table to the young man. "Write it all out. This is your chance to share your side."

Nodding curtly, Kushniruk took the pen and started writing furiously, the scratch of the pen against paper echoing in the room.

As Kushniruk poured out his emotions on the paper, Callen and Sam exchanged a brief glance with one another. The weight of the situation hung in the air, a mix of sympathy and duty guiding them. Once Kushniruk finished writing his confession, he pushed the legal pad back towards Callen, his eyes downcast.

He quickly reviewed the written confession, absorbing the pain evident in Kushniruk's words and the relevant case details. While they waited for Kushniruk's lawyer, Callen sent Deeks and Rountree to pick up Kushniruk's dealer, Alex Nguyen, while Sam got on the phone with Base Security at Pendleton, needing to brief them.

It took a couple of hours for the team to wrap everything up, booking both Kushniruk and Nguyen, but shortly after 1930 they were all finally packing up their gear at OSP, more than happy to call it a night.

Hetty then walked in, observing the team for a moment before offering them all a nod of approval. "Good job today, everyone. And I thought you'd all like to know that I just got off the phone with the hospital. Colonel Prescott has been re-stabilized and briefly regained consciousness." She scanned the team's tired but determined faces. "She's still weak, but the doctors are optimistic about her recovery."

Pleased to hear about Colonel Prescott's change in condition, the team shared glances of mixed relief and gratitude. Glad things had worked out as much as possible, Callen tossed his go-bag over his shoulder and eyed his team. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starving."

"Dinner on you, G?" Sam asked without missing a beat.

"Sure," he agreed, having no issue with picking up the tab this time. His gaze flickered between the rest of the group. "You guys in?"

Fatima was the first to respond, flashing a grin. "Free dinner? Count me in."

Rountree's eyes crinkled with a playful glint. "You had me at 'starving.'"

His adoptive mother nodded graciously. "I'd love to."

"You know I'm in," His partner replied, playfully clasping him on the shoulder.

"Sorry, guys. We have to pass tonight," Kensi politely declined. "It's a school night and Mama D's been at the house with Rosa all afternoon. Thanks, though."

"Rain cheque?" Deeks offered with a warm smile.

"No biggie," he replied, returning the smile. He wasn't surprised at all but knew how it felt to not be invited at all. He refused to do that to them. "Next time."

"Next time," Kensi and Deeks concurred.

With the dinner plans settled, he grabbed his cell phone and quickly fired off a text to his wife. 'Привет, милая. Команда только что завершила расследование. Мы собираемся поужинать вне. Я буду рад, если ты придешь.' Callen pressed send, a small smile playing on his lips as he waited for her reply. (Hey, Honey. The team just wrapped up a case. We're going out for dinner. Would love to have you there.)

A couple seconds later, his cell phone vibrated. 'Привет. Я с удовольствием приду. Скинь адрес, и я встречу вас всех там.' (Hey. I'd love to come. Text me the address and I'll meet you guys there.)

With a sense of contentment at her positive response, Callen quickly chatted with the other and texted his wife the address of the chosen restaurant. He was glad she was going to join them. As the group finished gathering their things and headed towards the tunnel exit, the prospect of a shared meal felt like a well-deserved break for them all.

Chapter 77: From Classrooms to Family

The rest of the workweek was quite the whirlwind, Callen's team working a high-profile weapons case with the ATF. With Sam on overwatch, he successfully infiltrated the cell, the task force safely securing the sizeable weapons cache late Friday night.

Amidst the exhaustion, Callen fell into a fitful sleep. Tossing and turning, Callen found himself transported back to the corridors of the alma mater where he'd spent much of his childhood training.

"That's enough, Seventeen." The math teacher's clipped tone drew the attention of the entire class. Callen felt the collective gaze of the room upon him and he already knew what the result would be for having pushed his luck. He had just been so angry lately and couldn't help it. "Mr. Pembrook's office, now."

"Fine!" he snapped. The fifteen-year-old glared as he shoved his things in his bag and made his way out of the math classroom. The narrow hallway stretched before him like a corridor of judgment as he marched towards Mr. Pembrook's office.

As he rounded a corner, Callen collided with the head teacher himself. The older man's eyes bore into Callen's with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. "Seventeen, I sincerely hope you have a good excuse for not being in class."

Callen's jaw tightened slightly as he met the head teacher's gaze. "I was told to go see you, sir," he replied truthfully, knowing that lying would just make things worse. Some of the defiance left his voice. "'Cause I was disrupting class again."

Mr. Pembrook gripped his arm tightly, a silent command for him to follow. Grudgingly, Callen allowed himself to be led into the nearby Interrogations classroom. The head teacher then directed Callen to a seat, the grip on his arm unwavering. "Sit."

He did as asked and watched as his head teacher the door with a muted thud, sealing them in a space that felt like a cocoon of scrutiny. The head teacher was now circling him, like a predator assessing its prey. "Your anger, Seventeen, is a liability. You're here to become an asset," Mr. Pembrook remarked, his tone a mix of authority and expectation. "And recent conduct leads much to be desired."

When Mr. Pembrook called his anger a liability, a mix of guilt and resentment swirled within him. I wish I went to normal school. Although part of him liked it at Drona, a larger part of him was starting to hate it there. Still, recognizing the look in the head teacher's eyes, he swallowed the lump in his throat. It didn't bode well for him. "Yes, sir. I'll do better."

Mr. Pembrook's piercing gaze continued bearing into Callen, scrutinizing him with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. "Yes, you will." Closing the distance between them, the head teacher started securing Callen's wrists to the metal chair. "I've told you before that emotions are a liability, Seventeen. Not to feel."

He nodded, feeling the second metal restraint shut firmly on his wrist. "Yes, sir. Feelings only cause pain."

"Precisely," Mr. Pembrook replied, forcing Callen's legs apart now and securing them as well. "There's twenty minutes until next period and we're going to make the most of it and hammer that point home."

He dipped his head slightly. "Yes, sir."

Mr. Pembrook, after roughly shoving a gag into Callen's mouth, moved with calculated purpose towards the set of cabinets over by the door. Callen swallowed anxiously as he watched the head teacher take out the drug kit and start filling one of the syringes with a drug clearly labelled NeuroAgon - a C.I.A creation. Callen had only been given a small dose of that particular drug once before and it was utter hell. He really wasn't looking forward to this lesson.

As Mr. Pembrook approached with the loaded syringe, his eyes widened in anticipation and a trace of fear. The head teacher's stern expression didn't budge as he injected the substance into Callen's right arm.

As the NeuroAgon took hold, Callen started feeling as though his body was on fire, the worst pain he had ever felt. He clenched his jaw, struggling to maintain composure as the searing sensation intensified. Beads of sweat formed on the teen's forehead, and his breaths became noticeably shallower.

Mr. Pembrook watched with clinical detachment, unaffected by Callen's silent ordeal. In fact, he forced another injection into Callen's arm. Tears immediately started to fall as the second dose hit him. Almost as quickly, Callen's face was met with the back of the head teacher's hand. "Don't cry, Seventeen. Don't feel. You must learn to live with the pain so you can fight through it. I've told you this."

A third syringe was prepared and he breathed as deeply as he could, doing his best to zone out. Another injection, another surge of excruciating pain. Callen's body trembled as he fought against the overwhelming sensation. He refused to let any more tears fall though. "Don't cry," he mentally reminded himself. "This is for my own good. Don't be weak and pathetic."

Finally, Mr. Pembrook ceased the injections, leaving him slumped in the chair, drained and emotionally battered. The head teacher finally removed the gag, allowing Callen to reorient himself between ragged breaths. He outwardly recovered quite fast though, much to the stern teacher's approval. "Good. Remember, Seventeen, resilience is born from adversity. This is a path to control, to strength."

With a tight nod, he complied. "Yes, sir. I understand."

Mr. Pembrook, seemingly satisfied, released the restraints, allowing Callen to stand. As the head teacher left the room, Callen took a steadying breath before walking out and making his way outside to the gym for Physical Education.

As the morning light filtered through the curtains at 0700 that morning, Callen opened his eyes to the sound of someone knocking on the door. With a loud groan, he got out of bed, careful not to disturb Anna. He hastily threw on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt before grabbing his service weapon from the bedside table. Still reeling a bit from the memory, Callen went and answered the front door. A life of catnapping meant that he wasn't overly tired, though he had tried to improve his sleeping habits over the years.

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly in surprise as he opened the front door to find Anna's father standing there with his usual grin. He'd somehow forgotten about their breakfast plans that morning. "Grisha, old friend."

He dipped his head slightly. "Morning, Arkady." He gestured for the older man to come inside. "Anna's still asleep but she should be -"

Before Callen could finish what he was saying, he heard the telltale sound of their bedroom door opening, quickly accompanied by his wife's voice. "Privet, papa." (Hey, Dad.)

The elder Kolcheck turned and gave Anna a small yet still affectionate smile. "Dobroye utro, Annoushka." (Good morning, Annoushka.)

"Poydu postavlyu kofe," he said, making the switch to Russian as well. He then turned towards the kitchen, intending to do just that. (I'll go put some coffee on.)

His wife nodded, a warm smile on her face. "A ya nachnu gotovit' zavtrak." She looked between the both of them. "Kak naschet olad'i iz tykvy?" (And I'll get breakfast going. How about some pumpkin olad'i?)

"Zvuchit vostoxititel'no," Arkady replied happily. (Sounds delightful.)

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee soon enveloped the kitchen, intertwining with the scent of Anna's pumpkin olad'i. As the trio sat down for breakfast, the morning light streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over their kitchen table. Callen couldn't help but appreciate the now familiar routine.

Over breakfast, the conversation flowed effortlessly between them. Arkady and Anna shared various silly anecdotes from over the years in a mix of English and Russian as they enjoyed Anna's cooking.

"Skazhem tak, v itoge my sozdali mini-vodopad na kukhne," the elder Kolcheck stated playfully. "Eto byla sanitarnaya katastrofa." (Let's just say we ended up creating a mini waterfall in the kitchen. It was a plumbing disaster.)

His wife eyed him, visibly trying to hold back a laugh. "Mozhet, my i ne pochynili kran, no my deystvitel'no sdelali na kukhne glubokuyu uborku." (We might not have fixed the faucet, but we sure gave that kitchen a deep clean.)

He arched a brow, smiling cheekily. "Imenno poetomu ty nanimayesh' professionalov." (And that's why you hire a professional.)

His father-in-law chuckled softly. "Eto spravedlivo." (That's fair.)

After breakfast, they both said goodbye to Arkady. Callen and Anna then hopped into his car and started the drive down to the San Diego Zoo, Alex having invited them to accompany her and Jake there for the day. The sky was cloudy which was providing a refreshing coolness that was going to make the outing even more enjoyable.

Arriving at the zoo just before noon, they spotted Alex and Jake waiting for them over by the gate. The scent of popcorn wafted through the air as they approached the gate, mingling with the scent of the nearby palm trees. The eleven-year-old was excitedly waving them over. The four of them then joined the line, it moving a lot quicker than Callen had thought it was going to.

Jake's hunger quickly became apparent as the boy looked around eagerly. "Mom, can we please grab lunch soon? I'm really hungry."

Alex smiled at Jake's enthusiasm, glancing at Callen and Anna for their agreement. With a nod from both, she said, "Absolutely, Sweetie. We'll grab some lunch quickly and then check out the exhibits."

Jake's eyes lit up with a grin. "Awesome! Can we have burgers?"

Alex rolled her eyes and shot Callen a look. "He's definitely your nephew." She turned to the tween with a smile. "Sure, I don't see why not."

With lunch plans settled, they continued further into the zoo, quickly finding the Safari Kitchen and ducking inside for a bite to eat.

As they enjoyed their burgers at the Safari Kitchen, Jake sharing one of his anecdotes from school, the tween eyed him curiously. "So, Uncle Grisha, did you ever go on cool field trips when you were in middle school?"

He, choosing to keep it light, smiled gently. Hedging was something that he was rather good at. "You know, Jake, not really. My school was a bit different. We focused more on specialized learning, and field trips weren't a big part of it." Periodically going to the large ranch just off of Ernest E. Debs Regional Park for outdoor survival training doesn't count.

Anna clasped his hand under the table, silently offering her support.

Jake, still curious, nodded. "Oh, okay. What was your school like?"

He sighed. "It was a private Special Education school. I started there after Christmas break when I was in the second grade."

Jake tilted his head slightly. "How come, Uncle?"

He took a second to carefully choose his words. He refused to put his issues onto his nephew or outright lie to the boy. It wasn't the time or place to have that particular conversation either though in his opinion. "Well, Buddy, they thought Drona would help me and I'd do better there than if I kept bouncing around public schools like I was."

"Because of being in foster care?" Alex asked, aware that their father had abandoned Callen in the U.S. when he was four - even if well-intentioned - leaving him to grow up alone in the cold foster care system.

Callen dipped his head slightly. "Yeah, because of being a foster kid. I changed placements a lot growing up."

While Callen spoke, Alex shot him a pointed look, as if his sister knew there was more to the story. That he was holding something back for Jake's sake.

Anna grabbed Jake's attention. "So, should we go to the reptile exhibit first?"

The tween grinned. "Oh, totally, Aunty Anna."

Their conversation continued, transitioning to lighter topics as they finished their meal and headed back into the zoo to explore and properly check out some of the exhibits.

When they finally approached the reptile exhibit, the eleven-year-old's eyes lit up like Christmas lights. Jake pressed his face against the glass, his breath fogging it up, much to his amusement.

As the group meandered through the zoo, Jake's infectious excitement filled the air. He pointed at different animals, sharing his favourites, reading the different facts on the signs, and asking the three adults various questions about the animals as well.

As 1630 rolled around, they made their way out of the zoo, deciding to go back to his and Anna's house for dinner. While his wife was busy cooking dinner, Jake was sitting on the couch playing some game on his Nintendo Switch, and he and Alex sat in the window nook. His half-sister then looked at him with a thoughtful expression. "Grisha, can I ask you something?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Yeah, what's up?"

"Stop me if I'm prying," Alex replied, "but when Jake asked you about school earlier, I kinda got the impression you were uncomfortable and holding back."

He hesitated a beat before responding. How much should I tell her? "Uh, yeah. School wasn't exactly a good experience for me."

His sister's expression softened. "You were bullied a lot, I'm guessing?"

"A little more complicated than that," he replied with a sigh. He still didn't know how much to tell his half-sister given how squeamish she could be about his line of work. "The program… Drona used chemical and corporal punishment."

Alex's eyes widened in concern. "Chemical and corporal punishment? That's… extreme. What kind of program subjects a kid to that?! Did you report it?"

He shrugged, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Who would I have told? I was just an orphaned foster kid and the program was helping me."

Alex's concern deepened, and she leaned forward, placing a hand on his arm. "Grisha, I'm so sorry. No child should go through that."

"I appreciate that but I'm not looking for sympathy," he said matter-of-factly. "Just didn't wanna lie to you."

Anna's voice echoed from the kitchen, breaking the half-siblings' quiet moment over in the window nook. "Dinner's ready, everyone."

He gave his wife a small nod. "Alright. Thanks, Honey."

Sharing a look with his half-sister, they quickly washed up to join Anna and Jake at the kitchen table. Callen also discretely took a deep breath in through his nose, counting to four, reminding himself to focus on the present. As he sat at the table, he kissed his wife on the cheek. His life was really good now and he needed to focus on that. Not on his crappy childhood.

Chapter 78: Bunked Secrets: Borealis Edition

Sunday, he and Anna grabbed lunch at Shake Shack with Nell and Eric, generally just wanting to spend time together. With how crazy their schedules were when Eric was in town they couldn't pass up the chance.

Monday morning, however, meant that they were right back into the swing of things. He and Sam had met at OSP early before work to get a workout and some training in, but shortly after 0900 their team was assigned a case.

A dead naval commander had been found in his quarters on the U.S.S. Borealis by one of the junior officers, Ensign Jesse Price. The commander had, to all appearances, died from a shot to the chest. Of course, this meant the team drove out to the ship so that they could look at the onboard crime scene.

Callen's eyes swept across the XO’s cramped living quarters, the metallic scent of blood lingering in the air, as he took in as much detail as he could. "Lost a lot of blood. Must've clipped an artery."

"You find a weapon yet?" Sam asked, having just walked in behind him. The SEAL had still been talking to the ship's captain when they'd started looking.

"Not yet," Rountree replied. "But come look at this."

They walked over to where Rountree was looking over the body. Callen quickly noticed the aforementioned GSW and saw the stippling pattern around it. "Shot at point blank range by what looks like a 7mm."

"And it's a through and through," Deeks pointed out.

Which might actually help us. Callen turned to his partner and tilted his head slightly. "Meaning the projectile should still be in his bunk."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Come on, G, help me turn him."

He nodded and did as asked. "There's no gun here." He tilted his head as something caught his attention. "But the bullet is still in the mattress." An object on the floor then drew his eyes. Callen leaned down to pick it up before showing his team. "And here's the shell casing."

He carefully bagged and tagged the two items and then passed it to his partner

The former SEAL gave the two evidence bags a quick once over. "That's a Tokarev 25," Sam said. "Mostly used by Koreans and Russians."

Wracking his brain to try and piece together, Callen swiftly turned to Captain Burgess. "Skipper, do you have any visitors onboard?"

"Affirmative," the captain confirmed with a small nod. "Uh, six individuals, including a group of international journalists."

He gave a little hum. A bit more of a pain politically, but that at least gives us an initial suspect list to work with. "Alright, we'll need a list of those names."

"Of course," Captain Burgess readily agreed.

"Does anyone know about the commander's murder yet?" Deeks questioned.

Before the captain could reply, Rountree got Callen's attention. "Uh, Callen, you might wanna come see this."

The junior agent proceeded to show Callen a ZNN article notification that had popped up on his cell phone. The news article was titled 'U.S. Navy Officer Shot To Death' and got straight to the point. Well, the team now had their answer about if anybody knew about the commander's passing.

His eyes narrowed as he read the article. "Looks like we've got a leak," he muttered, his mind already working through the implications.

Sam crossed his arms, his expression stern. "We need to find out who's talking to the press before any other intel gets leaked."

"And figure out if the leak's connected to the murder or just trying to exploit it," Deeks added.

"The leak could compromise the entire investigation," he remarked. Callen then turned toward Rountree. "Go check the ship's security footage, see who was in the area at the time of the murder."

The junior agent gave him a small nod. "On it."

Wrapping up processing the crime scene, they made the two-and-a-half-hour trip back to the Office of Special Projects, stopping for subs on the way.

Back at the OSP, Hetty was on the phone with SecNav Flynn when Callen walked into her office. "Yes, I understand that. We will. As soon as possible. Yes. Thank you." She hung up and eyed him. "Nobody knows who leaked the death, but the U.S.S. Borealis is now on lockdown," she stated, her tone measured. "There are two British reporters, one Canadian, and a South Korean journalist onboard."

Callen nodded, absorbing the information. "Well, the Korean journalist would certainly fit the profile. And the bullet we recovered. Has he alibied out?"

"No," Hetty stated with a shake of the head. "Mr. Park has, however, served four years in the Korean military and is the only guest without an alibi."

"Sounds like Park's worth a closer look," he said. This guy had the training and the access to pull this off.

Over in the bullpen, Callen's team was busy looking into Commander Derek Pritchard's background. The man was an Annapolis grad, served with distinction, and was a mere seven months away from hitting mandatory retirement. The elder man had no family. Commander Pritchard was friends with Admiral James Peterson, however.

Admiral Peterson had a very different portfolio, but Callen immediately sent Deeks and Rountree to find out if the commander had been doing any side work for the admiral.

While they talked to the admiral, he and Sam spoke with the South Korean journalist, Joon Park, who was less than cooperative and demanded that he be released. The man didn't get what he wanted, but a female petty officer, Jessica Rogers did accuse the man and inform them that she had seen Park and Pritchard arguing the night before.

After that little update, Callen set up a secured meeting with Admiral Peterson upstairs in the Operations Centre.

"Murder?" the admiral reiterated, visibly stunned. "Wow. I'll have to tell my wife Olivia. Derek was like family to us. Has been for years."

"Really?" he asked a bit skeptically. "Even after you skyrocketed up the ranks?"

The admiral quirked a brow. "I'm not sure I follow, Agent Callen."

Callen wasn't in the mood to beat around the bush. "Commander Pritchard was just a commander, Admiral. You're an admiral, Admiral."

The admiral didn't seem to take any offence at the implications. "Derek always knew that he had the gift of leadership much more than political savvy," the man explained. "And... he had a bad habit of telling people what he really thought."

Callen considered that piece of information and then asked, "If a journalist pushed him hard enough, would he have pushed back?"

The admiral nodded, no hesitation in his answer. "Yeah, and then some."

With Joon Park looking more and more like a solid murder suspect, he called his wife to let her know that he probably be home late and headed back to the U.S.S. Borealis with Sam to speak to the South Korean journalist yet again.

"Then how do you expect me to prove my innocence?" Park demanded after they had been questioning him for about fifteen minutes.

He arched a brow. "Well, an alibi would be a good start."

Sam levelled a stern look at the suspect. "Commander Pritchard was killed last night around two in the morning. So, where were you?"

Park leaned back slightly. "I was in my stateroom."

"Doing what?" he pressed. I was in my sleeping quarters? You just gave us the most cliché alibi possible. "Were you with anyone?"

"My actions are neither of your concern," Park said, clearly intending to continue being difficult and obfuscate things.

"On a U.S. naval vessel, yes, they are," Sam retorted. "You're about to be accused of murdering an American officer! Do you understand what that means?"

He crossed his arms and pointedly eyed the man. "One heck of a powder keg."

Sam stepped forward, trying to intimidate the man. "What are you, the fuse?!"

Park licked his lips nervously. "Fine, I'll negotiate."

"You're in no position to bargain," Sam retorted. "Let's go. This is a waste of time." The SEAL stood up as he spoke and began walking to the door.

He instantly followed suit. "See you in prison, Park."

"I was sending e-mails!" the man yelled before they could leave.

He and Sam sat back down in front of the journalist again, pleased that they'd got the reaction they'd been banking on.

"E-mails?" Callen prodded.

The South Korean journalist sighed. "Yes. I sent them all through a series of encoded signals unencrypted by a sub off the coast."

"Then we'll need the name of the sub," he said, grabbing his notepad.

"I cannot," the man insisted. "They'll kill me."

"I wouldn't be so worried," Sam said coolly. "South Korea's our ally."

"But North Korea isn't," Park stated, dropping a large bombshell on them. That made things a whole lot messier. It posed a direct threat to their national security if those emails made it into the hands of the intended recipients. "Timestamps on the e-mails will prove my innocence. I was sending photographs of your weapons systems." The journalist glanced between both agents. "Go ahead, arrest me for espionage. At home, they'll call me a hero. But I swear I'm not a murderer."

Deciding they weren't going to get anything more on their murder case from Park, he and Sam arrested him and seized all of his electronics. They then handed over Park to the Military Police at Naval Base San Diego. Callen made sure to contact Hetty to give her a courtesy heads-up on the situation before he and Sam got off the ship. They then hopped into the Hellcat and drove back to L.A., stopping for dinner on the way.

As they finished their drive back to L.A., Callen's mind buzzed with questions, the road stretching ahead mirroring the uncertainties of the case. Who leaked the commander's death and why? And if Park didn't kill Pritchard, who in his command wanted the guy dead? He had a solid reputation and no issues.

It was just after midnight when Sam finally pulled up outside of Callen's house. Feeling tired after the long day, he stepped out of Sam's car and walked to the front door, glad to finally be home. It was crazy how tiring sitting in a car could get.

Callen unlocked the front door and let himself into the house. He quietly made his way through the house, shrugging his leather jacket off and then kicking off his shoes. Not bothering to turn any lights on, Callen headed towards the bedroom.

He walked into their bedroom and noted that Anna was unsurprisingly already in bed. The bedside lamp on her right was casting a soft glow through the room as she read one of her books - "Кысь" or "The Slynx" by Tatyana Tolstaya. The quiet solitude of their bedroom was a stark contrast to the intensity of the day, providing a moment of calm before the storm.

Anna closed her novel, the soft rustle of pages accompanying it. She then glanced up at him, a warm smile playing on her lips. "Long day?"

He sighed as he started to undress. "Espionage, murder, and a leak to the press," he explained. "SecNav's already butting in."

Anna's smile softened. "Well, you'll figure it out. You always do." With those words, his wife leaned in for a quick kiss, which Callen deepened as he slipped into bed with her. Wrapping his arms around Anna, he allowed the tensions of the day to momentarily fade away. God, I love her. How did I get so lucky?

Chapter 79: Beyond Cold Borders

Morning sunlight streamed into the kitchen as Callen and Anna sat and enjoyed a light breakfast together, savouring warm croissants, trying to get some shopping for the baby's nursery done, and discussing baby names further. The aroma of regular and decaf coffee filled the air, creating a comforting atmosphere.

Arriving at the office, Callen and Sam headed to the gym for a friendly game of hoops, a favourite pastime of theirs. As the rhythmic thud of the basketball and playful banter punctuated the air, Nate unexpectedly appeared, observing the pair for a moment. The Operational Psychologist then walked up to them with a smile. "Morning, guys."

Callen and Sam paused their game, turning to the Operational Psychologist. Sam was the first one to speak. "Morning, Nate."

"Morning," he said. "So, what brings you to our slice of the L.A. spy scene?"

"Ah, just doing some profiling for Peter Campbell's team," Nate said with a small smile. "But Callen, I was actually hoping we could catch up. You have a minute?"

Callen shared a quick look with Sam then shrugged. Maybe I should talk to him. About Jake, at least. "Sure, why not? Lead the way, Doc."

"Great," Nate said happily as Callen began grabbing his things from his locker. The pair then made their way upstairs to Nate's old broom closet.

Nate closed the office door behind them, creating a sense of privacy amid the hubbub of OSP and Callen took his usual seat, leaning back as Nate did the same.

"So, how's everything going, Callen?" Nate asked, keeping his tone casual.

He leaned forward slightly. "Things are good. Life's settling down a bit. Anna and I are getting ready for the baby. It's a whole new chapter."

The Operational Psychologist nodded. "That's great to hear," Nate said. "Change can be both exciting and challenging. Have you been managing okay?"

"Yeah," he replied. "There's a lot to do before the baby gets here, but we're figuring it out." His lips curled upwards into a wide smile. "We went to the zoo with Alex and Jake on Saturday."

Nate smiled. "Sounds like a fun day. How did your nephew like the zoo?"

"He loved it," Callen replied, smiling more warmly now. "Particularly the reptile exhibit."

Nate leaned forward slightly in his chair and chuckled softly. "I can't say I share the same fondness for snakes, but good for him." The Operational Psychologist then adopted a slightly more serious expression. "And Drona? How are you handling that?"

Callen's expression shifted, a brief flicker of concern crossing his features. "Drona... it's been on my mind. More than I expected." He sighed. "Jake asked me about school while we talked over lunch."

Nate hummed. "I see. Talking about school couldn't have been easy. How'd you handle Jake's questions? Have you talked to Alex about it?"

He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I hedged a bit, kept it simple with Jake. Told him I went to a Special Education school as a kid and field trips weren't really a thing. I didn't wanna go into too much detail with him. For right now, anyway."

"That's understandable," Nate said. "You can always fill in more of the gaps when he's a bit older if you decide to. And what about your half-sister?"

"We talked a bit about it," he replied. "She knows my Special Education program used chemical and corporal punishment." He sighed. "It's hard to know how much to share with Alex as she tends to get a little, uh…"

"Flighty?" Nate offered.

"Yeah," he agreed with a subtle dip of the head. "That's a good word for it. This time around, she handled it well, all things considered."

"That's good to hear," Nate replied. "Maybe breaking it down into a series of smaller conversations is the way to go." The Operational Psychologist leaned forward slightly. "Callen, if you're comfortable with it, I'd like you to share a memory with me. Walk me through one of your training sessions."

With an exhale, Callen nodded and began recounting a memory. "Alright. Well, at one point our Outdoor Survival class involved cold exposure. We had to stand in ice-cold water for what felt like an eternity." His gaze went distant as he recounted the scene. "It sucked, but Pembrook emphasized building resilience. That wasn't the worst class, though. A lot of the Interrogation classes we had were worse."

Nate tilted his head slightly. "How so?"

Callen subtly licked his lips. "He tried to push us to our limits, to test us. I remember being waterboarded, a mallet taken to my hand, drugged, cut, burned, beaten with batons." He exhaled. "I remember being ordered to teach one of the other subjects a lesson when they almost cost my unit our target on a training mission."

"You did training missions?" Nate asked.

He nodded curtly. "Yeah, we did Kill Houses as practical mid-term and final exams for our Weapons & Self-Defence class."

The Operational Psychologist sat up a little straighter and listened intently. "Sounds incredibly demanding. And you were ordered to beat another subject for messing up during one of these ops?"

"My orders were to impart the repercussions of failure," Callen said with a nod. "And I didn't even really hesitate." He gave a weak chuckle. "Just followed orders like a good little child soldier."

Nate observed him, recognizing the weight carried by those memories. "It must have been intense, living through all that. How do you feel about it now? And about Hetty's involvement? I know you said last time we spoke that you two are at a better place."

Callen dipped his head slightly. "Hetty and I are good, really. She spent years trying to help me and fix her mistake. She also had nothing to do with the training. Pembrook wrote notes while training us about doubting his own methods and he still did it. So, yeah, I am still fairly angry with him."

The Operational Psychologist nodded thoughtfully as he listened. "It's understandable that you still harbour some resentment towards him. Drona was an incredibly adverse environment and Pembrook deliberately abused his position of power." Nate gave him a pointed look. "It's important to process that anger in a healthy way though, which it seems you're doing. You handled the discussion with Jake extremely well, by the way. Just don't lose sight of the present."

Determination was etched across Callen's face. "I won't," he assured Nate. "I'm not letting Pembrook take anything else from me and I want to be the best dad I can be for our daughter."

Mild surprise crossed the Operational Psychologist's face before he broke into a wide grin. "So, you two found out the gender?"

He nodded, his own smile forming. "Yep. So only half the baby names to fight about," Callen quipped. "But we're narrowing it down."

Nate leaned back, his expression warm. "That's fantastic news, Callen. It's clear you're determined to create a positive environment for your child. Just remember, it takes a village. You and Anna have an entire team behind you."

"I know," he said earnestly. "And I appreciate that." His cell phone buzzed so he fished it out of his back pocket, seeing an e-mail from the forensics lab. Callen glanced back up at the Operational Psychologist. "Duty calls." He stood up, pocketing his phone, and offering Nate a small nod. "Thanks for the chat."

Nate stood up as well, a supportive smile on his face. "Anytime, man. Watch your six and, remember, it's a sprint, not a marathon."

With that, Callen exited the office and headed back downstairs to the bustling bullpen so he could share the forensic report with his team.

The results weren't quite what Callen had expected. No weapon had been recovered during the investigation, but the lab techs had discovered tape residue on the victim's fingers that indicated that maybe Pritchard himself had pulled the trigger.

As Callen had predicted, the commander was shot at close range. There was bruising on his chest, so the gun was held there with tremendous pressure. Ducky also found GSR on the commander's knuckles, a severely broken nail on his right hand and hairline fractures on some of his fingers.

They seemed likely to be defensive wounds. Rose was rather confused by the angle of the shot, though. The entry wound should have been higher up given the fact that the shooter by all accounts had been standing right over the victim.

Callen then started discussing gun buyers with his team, attempting to narrow down the suspect list somewhat. He also had everyone to look more into the commander's past to see if they missed anything.

Around noon, the team snagged some fish tacos from Carlos' food truck, Border Grille, needing the break before they dived back into their information search.

With little progress there, shortly after 1500, Callen spoke with Hetty and let her know that he and Sam were going back out to the U.S.S. Borealis for one last interview. It was a shot in the dark, but his gut had been telling him to do it since the initial results from forensics had come back.

They were over halfway to the base when the forensics lab called with the test results, confirming what Callen had been suspecting for most of the day.

Arriving back onboard the U.S.S. Borealis, he and immediately had Captain Burgess order Ensign Price and Petty Officer Rogers to assemble in the ship's Mess Hall, hoping to not completely tip the sailors off.

Once the four of them were seated in the Mess Hall, Callen kicked off the questioning. "What was your relationship with Commander Pritchard?"

"He was a respected officer," Rogers replied. "Great XO. Mentor."

"Was he hard on you?" he pressed.

"He made us better sailors," Price countered.

"Commander Pritchard's father was in World War II and Korea," Sam jumped in. His partner then placed a photo of the commander and his father - in uniform - down in front of the two sailors. "Did you know that?"

"No, sir!" Price replied without hesitation.

Sam placed another photo down on the table in front of the pair. "This is the weapon he carried. It was given to him by a Russian officer."

"XO had it with him on board," Callen chimed in. "And, as you know, that's a big no-no aboard a Navy vessel."

"Does it look familiar?" Sam asked. The man received no response, so continued. "We found tape residue on the commander. The only DNA on it was his own."

"So we were thinking," Callen chimed in, "well, what if he taped the gun to his hand so it wouldn't move, no matter what?"

"Commander Pritchard was seven months away from mandatory retirement from the Navy," Sam said. "He didn't have a family. His career was over."

"So your XO," he said, "was about to lose everything he cared about."

"You discovered the body, Ensign?" Sam inquired, although it was really a statement. "You didn't want him remembered as a weak man, so with the petty officer's help you made it look like a murder?"

"The gun was still attached to his hand when I walked in," the ensign finally admitted to the two NCIS agents. "Didn't seem right."

"We knocked some things onto the floor around the bunk. Made it look like a scuffle," the petty officer then added. "Didn't see the bullet casing. He was a man of honour. He deserved to be buried like one."

Ensign Price nodded in agreement with the petty officer.

He and Sam exchanged knowing glances before concluding the interview. "Your loyalty to Commander Pritchard is admirable," Callen said, "but tampering with a crime scene is still a serious offence. We need you to come with us to make a formal statement."

"What happens after that will be up to your chain of command," his partner said, well aware that the sailors were facing Non-Judicial Punishment at minimum and a formal court-martial at worst depending on Commander's Discretion.

Getting dropped off at home by Sam a little after midnight, he walked into the house, careful not to wake Anna if she'd gone to bed. He quickly saw her asleep on the couch, a soft glow from the muted TV casting shadows on his wife's face. Gently, he covered her with a blanket before heading to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

As the coffee brewed, Callen's head was whirling. He quietly poured himself a cup of the hot brew and sat down at the kitchen table, trying to clear his mind. He'd spent a long time over the years passively suicidal, emotionally adrift, and Callen could easily see how Commander Pritchard got to where he was.

He fully understood what it was like to have nobody, to have nothing. Hell, how many times over the years had he fired back at Sam that he'd probably be dead before his "unhealthy lifestyle" caught up with him so it didn't matter? He hadn't envisioned any sort of actual future for himself back then.

"Where do you think you're gonna be in a few years, you keep this up?" Sam chastised as they walked into OSP together.

"I'll probably be killed on the job long before that," he retorted without missing a beat.

His partner shot him an exasperated look. Again. "Why do you do that?"

He also thought back to a conversation at work a couple of months post-medical-leave for the drive-by shooting back in 2009.

"You guys, guys. I got something," Eric told them as they looked into the operatives connected to Operation Cossack a few months after his drive-by shooting. "Stanhope and Taylor are both dead. Murdered. Stanhope in Vegas, Taylor in Chicago. And they were both killed on the same day."

"The fifth of May," Callen stated, his voice steady but carrying a quiet intensity in it. "The same day I should have died."

Despite what his team may have thought, Callen had meant the words.

As he took a sip of his coffee, glancing down at the ultrasound image on the table and thinking back to the last time he'd seen his own father, his phone vibrated.

It was a text from Hetty that simply said, 'Callen?'

Callen closed his eyes and inhaled. Hetty hadn't asked him about his chat with Nate. She hadn't asked him if he needed anything. She hadn't even asked him about his feelings regarding the case. She simply opened with a question and let him answer.

He typed out a response. 'Hell of a day.' Then he deleted it. Callen tried, 'How did you know?' Then he deleted that too. Finally, he wrote, 'Yeah' and hit send before he could overthink it some more. Hetty would understand; she always did.

A moment later, Hetty replied. 'Dovecote, 0700.'

He thought back to when he was about to turn eighteen and assumed it meant Hetty would finally kick him out after a cruel remark from his social worker and Hetty's only answer had been, "Remember what I told you the day you moved in with me? You will always have a home here, Mr. Callen."

His lips turned upwards into a smile as he typed back. `I'll be there.'

The following morning, Callen found himself with Anna back at the familiar Hollywood home, having breakfast with Hetty. He couldn't help but recall his adoptive mother's words from when he'd first moved in with her as a scared teen: "There will be people who come into your life. And you'll know you're safe when you're with them." Sipping his tea, he shot Hetty a grateful look, silently saying, "Thank you for taking a terrified, lonely, teenager in and saving him."

Chapter 80: Silicon Waves

Thursday, Callen woke up to the morning sunlight trickling in through the blinds on the bedroom window. He was quiet so as to not disturb Anna but it didn't take her long to notice that he had woken up. His wife's eyes sparkled as she shifted to face him with a warm smile. "Good morning."

Responding with a hum, Callen shifted onto his right side, making it so that they were lying face-to-face. "Good morning to you too."

He and Anna kissed and then laid there, cuddling, for a while, before they both hopped out of bed finally and threw some clothes on.

Once they were ready for the day, they decided to treat themselves to some breakfast from Eggslut. Sitting down at the kitchen table, they both dug into their food.

"This beats smoothies any day," he quipped before taking a bite of his crispy bacon.

"You do love your bacon," Anna quipped, digging into her breakfast sandwich.

"You're not wrong," he replied with a smirk.

As they enjoyed their meal, Callen and Anna exchanged little anecdotes from over the years, including a story about a summer trip Anna took with her mother as a teenager and whatever else came to their minds. Such as when Hetty visited a twenty-year-old him in Berlin when he was in between assignments and Callen took her out to see the Magic Flute - or Die Zauberflöte - without actually knowing what it was about. The first and last time he ever saw that opera.

"You took Hetty to see the Magic Flute?" Anna reiterated with a raised eyebrow. "Well, the gesture was sweet." His wife took a sip of the Rooibos tea his adoptive mother had recently gifted her. "How did that go?"

His lips curled into a nostalgic grin. "Let's just say she turned it into a tradecraft lesson in doing my research before any op, no matter how trivial." Given the rather blatant sexism and racism in the opera, Hetty wasn't a fan. She'd thoroughly critiqued the whole show during the resulting apology dinner.

Anna laughed. "Yeah, that sounds like her."

The pleasant chatter continued until the distinctive sound of Sam's Challenger pulling up outside caught their attention. Quickly grabbing his NCIS shield and service weapon from the gun safe, Anna gave him a quick kiss. "Watch your six," she said. "And, don't forget, we have that dinner with Stacy and her new boyfriend tonight."

"Always do," he said with a reassuring smile. "And I know. I'll do my best to be there." He leaned in for a kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you so much,” his wife replied with an affectionate smile. 

Once they parted, Callen left for another day at the Office of Special Projects.

Walking into the bullpen, he and Sam quickly spotted the empty blue recycling bin and decided, not for the first time, to pass the time with a small game of Horse. Kensi was on the couch, shaking her head at the antics while chatting with Deeks and Rountree about the movie A Haunting in Venice that recently came out.

"Oh, the humanity!" his partner yelled with a laugh as Sam made the latest shot.

He smirked, grabbing a new piece of paper. "Hold your horses, Big Guy."

Their game was interrupted by Kensi saying, "Good morning, Hetty!" which caused the two partners to immediately turn to the Operations Manager.

His partner grinned. "Good morning."

"Morning, Hetty." he chimed in. "Wanna take a shot? Save the planet."

Hetty glanced at their makeshift basketball hoop with a hint of amusement in her eyes and shook her head. "I'll pass on the boy's games today, gentlemen. But I do require everyone's presence up in Ops." She turned around and started walking back towards the staircase. "À l'étage." (Upstairs.)

Callen nodded. "On vient,” he easily replied in French. With a purposeful stride, he began making his way to the stairs, the rest of the team following closely behind him. "I take it Fatima's already up there waiting on us?" (We're coming.)

"Indeed she is," Hetty confirmed with a small nod.

Entering the Operations Centre, they gathered around the table as Fatima began the briefing. "Good morning, everyone." She pulled a company logo and several personnel I.D.s up on the large screen. "TechTide Innovations. They're an up-and-coming private contractor out of Silicon Beach hired to develop and manufacture UUVs or Unmanned Underwater Vehicles for the U.S. Navy."

Sam gave a small nod. "Underwater drones."

"Exactly," Fatima confirmed, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. "These UUVs are equipped with advanced sensors and can be a game-changer for maritime operations." The junior agent pulled several bank statements up on the large screen. "Several large deposits were recently linked to TechTide and caught the attention of FinCEN who've asked us to step in."

Deeks leaned forward, intrigued. "So, we're diving into the deep end, literally?"

"That's the plan," Fatima replied with a nod. She turned to the two senior field agents. "Callen, Sam, you'll be our underwater operatives for this one."

Hetty glanced between them both. "You two will be assuming your old aliases Samuel Wright and Curtis Williams, posing as potential investors."

He nodded, a hint of a smirk appearing. "Should be fun. We haven't dusted off those aliases in a while."

His partner easily matched his expression. "Well, no time like the present."

A subtle flicker of amusement crossed his adoptive mother's face before she turned to address the other two guys. "Mr. Deeks and Mr. Rountree, you two will be providing overwatch."

Rountree gave a small nod. "Got it, Hetty."

"Overwatch duty, my favourite!" Deeks quipped, rolling his eyes playfully as he landed the surveillance role.

The Operations Manager turned to Kensi. "Ms. Blye, you will work with Ms. Namazi to gather intel on TechTide's personnel and any other irregularities."

Kensi dipped her head slightly. "Of course."

Deeks exchanged a quick glance with Kensi before speaking up. "Just to clarify, are we expecting any direct threats or is this more about financial irregularities?"

"We're primarily focused on the financial aspect at the moment," Hetty said. She then turned to him and Sam. "But given the sensitive nature of the work there, you would do well to be prepared for any security measures they might be employing."

He arched a brow and smirked. "Aren't we always?"

With their roles assigned, the team quickly delved into preparations for the operation. He and Sam spent a good chunk of the morning going back over their cover identities, updating the I.D.s, and familiarizing themselves with TechTide Innovations. They were backstopped with just under a billion dollars and their energy drink company Buzzkrieg was still taking Europe by storm. Along with the up-and-coming Smart Home Security business they'd invested in the previous year, of course. While he and Sam were doing that, Kensi and Fatima began compiling intel on company personnel.

Shortly after noon, they walked the block to Mike's Deli and grabbed some subs, chips, and water bottles. Heading back to the office, they then gathered down in the bullpen and chatted while enjoying their meal.

After lunch, Callen and Sam headed down to Wardrobe and threw on their undercover outfits. He dressed in a modern two-piece black suit with a light blue checkered dress shirt, while Sam opted for an edgier look and rocked an all-black ensemble featuring the Navy SEAL's favourite leather jacket.

He and Sam then headed through the tunnel leading outside, hopped into the Hellcat, and started the drive west to Marina del Rey.

Pulling up just down the street from TechTide Innovations, he and Sam put their game faces on and walked toward the building in question.

Callen and Sam strolled into TechTide Innovations, their polished shoes echoing in the pristine lobby. A receptionist looked up at them. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I assist you today?" she inquired.

He stepped forward with a playful glint in his eye. "Hey there! We're here to bring a bit of joy into TechTide's day. I'm Curtis Williams and -" He gestured to Sam. "- this is my business partner, Samuel Wright."

"We would like to discuss doing business with your boss," Sam said.

The receptionist smiled and checked her computer. "I'll inform Mr. Walker. Please have a seat in the waiting area, and he'll be with you shortly."

He and Sam took a seat, exchanging a brief glance, their undercover personas at the forefront of their minds. Maybe three minutes later, a tall man in a crisp, navy blue suit came off of the elevator and approached them. "Mr. Williams, Mr. Wright. I'm Darin Walker, the CEO of TechTide." The man offered his hand. "Pleasure to meet you both."

He extended his own hand with a charming smile. "Likewise, Mr. Walker."

Sam shook the CEO's hand. "We've heard impressive things about your company and thought it's high time we reached out."

"Glad to hear it!" Mr. Walker replied. "Let's head to a conference room and discuss how we can collaborate." The man indicated a room and started walking towards it. "I just wish you'd given us some warning."

Callen was still grinning widely. "Well, Mr. Walker, we like to arrive unannounced so we can see the business in its natural, undisturbed state."

Walker chuckled softly. "Fair enough, Mr. Williams. And spontaneity can be refreshing."

Walker led them into a sleek, brightly lit conference room with large windows offering a stunning view of the marina. As they settled around the large table, Walker gestured to the chairs. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." Once he and Sam sat down, the man continued. "Now, what can I do for you two gentlemen?"

He leaned back in his chair slightly. "Well, Mr. Walker, we've been keeping a close eye on innovative companies, and TechTide's recent work with maritime technology caught our attention." Once the words left his mouth, Callen watched for a reaction. They did need access to the UUV technology but had to be careful not to overplay their hand.

"Absolutely," Sam chimed in, reinforcing their cover story. "Curtis and I, we're always looking to invest in cutting-edge technology, and your company's Multi-beam Sonar System seems like a promising venture."

Walker leaned forward slightly, eager to share. "Our Multi-beam Sonar System is indeed one of our flagship projects, Mr. Wright. It enhances both underwater mapping and surveillance capabilities, making it a valuable tool for environmental exploration."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "It's very impressive technology, Mr. Walker." Sam glanced at him and back at the CEO. "Look, we want nothing more than to see your company rival Veson Nautical, and we've got the cash that can make it happen."

"The way we see it," he said, "you need guys that are real needle movers. TechTide's not a start-up anymore." He leaned forward a tad, doing his best to ooze confidence. "We can take your company to the next level. From zero to 60, 80, 200 mph."

Walker hummed and, apparently liking what he was hearing, nodded. "That's quite the proposition, gentlemen. So, where do we start?"

"I'd like to take a look at some of your product," he replied matter-of-factly.

Walker nodded. "Of course, Mr. Williams. Follow me and I'll have my VP of Operations, Matthew Delgado, give you both a tour of the facilities."

After Walker's initial introductions, the man led Callen and Sam to a room a couple of doors down – Matthew Delgado's office. Glancing up as they walked in, Delgado got up from behind his desk and offered them each a firm handshake.

"Mr. Williams, Mr. Wright," Delgado said, greeting them professionally. "It's a pleasure to meet you gentlemen. Our receptionist, Katie, gave me a heads-up. Will Buzzkrieg be coming to the U.S. anytime soon?"

He shook the man's hand, taking note of the meticulous setup of the office in an effort to get a read on the man. "Likewise, Mr. Delgado." Callen then adopted a slightly more cocky expression. "And all in good time."

"We have other priorities at the moment," his partner said. "We've been focusing more on the growing tech industry lately."

"Then you've come to the right place," Delgado replied. "I assure you, investing in us will be worth your while."

"I have a meeting to get to," Walker said, "but you two gentlemen are in good hands. Matt here will show you around and answer any questions you have."

Sam dipped his head slightly. "Thank you."

With Walker excusing himself, Delgado assumed the role of their guide. "Follow me, gentlemen. I'll give you a firsthand look at the heart of our operations."

As they left Delgado's office, he and Sam maintained their covers, expressing genuine interest in the workings of TechTide Innovations. Delgado led them through the busy R&D area, explaining the intricacies of their cutting-edge projects. Callen took mental notes, keenly observing the atmosphere and interactions within the facility.

With any luck, once he and Sam were back in Delgado's office after their little tour one of them would be able to get on the man's computer and get access to TechTide's files. Maybe even get a look inside of that filing cabinet he'd seen earlier.

Chapter 81: From Canes to Corruption

The gym echoed with their P.E. teacher Mr. Richards' voice as the man barked orders at the class. "Alright, subjects, drop and give me thirty!" The sound of small feet hitting the floor punctuated the room as the group began the burpees.

He, halfway through the set, felt the strain intensify. His breathing was heavier, and his movements were becoming noticeably sluggish. To Callen's left, another boy named Thirteen was struggling too, both of their efforts starting to falter.

Mr. Richards noticed them both struggling and walked briskly towards them. "Seventeen, Thirteen, pick up the pace! Keep going!"

Callen's muscles screamed in protest with each burpee as he tried to do as ordered. It was just getting harder and harder for him, though. His legs and shoulders were sore. "Why is this so hard?" Callen mentally chastised himself. "I need to pull myself together."

As the struggle continued, the gym doors creaked open, and the head teacher walked in. Mr. Pembrook watched coolly as Callen and Thirteen, along with the others, pushed through the set of burpees that they had been ordered to complete.

Seeing the slowing pace of several of the subjects, Pembrook's voice cut through the gym. "Richards, this is unacceptable. We can't tolerate laziness in their training." The man eyed Callen, Sixteen, and the others who were struggling. "Subjects Seventeen, Thirteen, Nine, and Five, come to the front. Now."

The four subjects scrambled to their feet, Callen's heart racing with a mix of fear and anticipation. The gym fell into a tense hush as the other subjects, keenly aware of the unfolding discipline, watched them make their way to the front of the gym.

Once the four subjects formed a line, it wasn't long before their head teacher took out his wooden rod and started caning each of them. Unfortunately, Callen was last in line.

As the rod hit Callen's back, a sharp sting cut through him, and he instinctively wanted to cry. As the rod came back down on him, he desperately fought back tears, thinking of a recent conversation he'd had with Mr. Pembrook about how not to cry: Don't feel. Feelings cause pain. It was hard though and Callen clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek as the harsh caning continued, each strike sending a searing jolt of pain through his body.

As the caning finally ceased, Callen, along with Subjects Thirteen, Nine, and Five, were coolly dismissed and silently fell back into formation with the others. As Mr. Richards resumed the class, the subjects being ordered to line up for a beep test, Callen had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He shook his head slightly, trying to refocus. "Mr. Pembrook's just trying to help," the ten-year-old reminded himself. "I just need to work harder. He won't be so hard on me then."

Callen's eyes snapped open, a lingering rage pulsating beneath the practiced calm that settled over his features as he shook the haunting images away. The gym's oppressive atmosphere dissolved, replaced by the stillness of his and Anna's bedroom. Breathing deeply, he slowly lulled himself back to sleep.

A few hours later, he and Anna kicked off their day with some breakfast bagels, joking and sipping the Rooibos tea from Hetty as they enjoyed the calm before work. As he poured them both another cup of tea, discussing baby names and the nursery, his cell phone started to vibrating. Taking it out, Callen saw his older foster brother Raymond's name and photograph flashing on the small phone screen.

Callen's lips curled upwards as he answered the phone call. He was warmly greeted by the familiar voice of his older foster brother. "Morning, G."

He leaned back in his chair. "Hey, Ray. What's up?"

Raymond chuckled on the other end of the line. "Not much, man. Just wanted to check in and see how you're doing. So, how's life treating you?"

He took a thoughtful sip of his drink before replying. "Life's good. Busy with work, but Anna and I are great. How are things with you?"

"Things are good," Raymond replied with an air of contentment. "You know how it is – work, family. Keeps me on my toes."

He grinned. "Oh, I get it. Dinner tonight?"

"Your place or ours?" Raymond asked happily.

Anna smiled and gestured to their surroundings while mouthing, "Here."

"Our place sounds good," Callen replied with a grin. "Anna's been planning on making some of her Herring Under a Fur Coat, so you're in for a treat."

Raymond laughed. "Great. We'll bring dessert then. So, how's work been?"

The pair chatted for a few more minutes and then Callen had to say goodbye and grab his weapon and badge. Going by the horn being honked outside, Sam had just pulled up. Giving his wife a quick kiss, he headed out for another day at work, leaving Anna to get ready to testify in court for one of her cases.

Sitting in the bullpen with his team, they discussed their next move. They'd managed to get several files off of TechTide's computer system and take several photos of some of the paper files stashed away in Delgado's office. They'd spent several hours sorting through them the day before. Unfortunately, they hadn't found anything useful. Yet.

They all spent the better part of the morning sorting through files, although Callen had a very brief meeting with Hetty regarding the case. Callen also had a phone call with Walker regarding their business deal.

Unfortunately, the team still hadn't managed to find anything particularly useful. When noon rolled around, they decided to take their lunch break. He and Sam were walking back from Mike's Deli when he spotted someone who looked a lot like Thirteen a little ways down the sidewalk from them. The man had short, red hair as well as the same lean yet defined physique. The only significant difference was the guy in front of him had slightly darker hair than he recalled Thirteen having. Callen exhaled, immediately being hit with another memory.

In the grim Interrogation classroom of the Drona Project, Thirteen, positioned in the centre of the ominous circle, faced the relentless onslaught of baton strikes from his fellow subjects, pain endurance being the tradecraft lesson of the day.

"Get up," the head teacher ordered callously. "Pain is merely a state of mind, Thirteen. You must learn to live with it so you can fight through it." The redheaded boy tried to get back up on his feet. "Get up!"

Trembling slightly, Subject Thirteen summoned the strength to get to his feet.

"Good. Again!" Mr. Pembrook said, the man's cold voice pierced the classroom air, and the subjects resumed the relentless beating.

As the rhythmic thuds and grunts echoed through the room, Callen found himself at a moral crossroads. Thirteen, vulnerable in the centre of the circle, bore the relentless blows of the batons from the other subjects. The head teacher, observant as always, quickly realized that Callen was holding back. He was participating, yes, but he was not putting his all into it.

"Seventeen, stop holding back," the head teacher chastised. "Reluctance is a stain on the discipline we demand here. Either you follow orders or you'll take Thirteen's place in the circle." Mr. Pembrook's command hung heavy in the air, the threat of becoming the next target amplifying the internal conflict within Callen.

Callen's eyes hardened with resolve and he nodded curtly. The earlier hesitation was now buried deep beneath a mask of compliance. "Yes, sir." Raising the wooden baton with a cold detachment, he swung. He relentlessly hit the target, each strike chipping away at something within him until he was at last ordered to stand down.

Mr. Pembrook had observed Callen's cold execution with a subtle sense of satisfaction. "Seventeen, that's more like it. That detachment is precisely what you must strive for. Embrace it. And remember, feelings are weakness. Feelings cause pain."

Callen nodded mechanically, all too familiar with that manta. He couldn't wait until this class period was over. "Yes, sir. I understand."

His partner's voice pulled him from his musings and back into the present. "You good, G?"

"Don't I seem good?" he replied almost reflexively. He couldn't think of a good reason, to be honest, as it wasn't like Sam would judge him.

"You seem a little off your game," Sam countered, not unkindly. "Flashbacks?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "Something from Drona." He looked around the bustling street as they continued walking. "Not that it matters now."

The former Navy SEAL, perceptive as always, shot him a knowing side-eye. "If it didn't matter, you wouldn't have brought it up, G."

Callen's hands clenched involuntarily and he sighed. "I had to beat another subject as part of our pain endurance training."

"That's twisted, G." Sam clasped him on the shoulder in a silent gesture of solidarity. "Sounds worse than Hell Week back in the Teams."

He rolled his eyes, a wry smirk playing on his lips. He knew what Sam was doing and appreciated the attempt at levity. "And you at least had a Swim Buddy."

"True," his partner fired back. Sam then adopted a more serious expression. "Seriously though, G, I'm sorry you went through that."

He shot Sam a grim smile. "Yeah, well, it's over now."

Sam dipped his head slightly. "That it is, Partner."

As they entered the bullpen a short while later, the familiar hum of activity surrounded them as the pair began handing out the food orders to Kensi and Deeks. Rountree and Fatima had left to grab some sushi and, seemingly, weren't back yet.

The afternoon pressed on, the team diving back into the TechTide investigation with a renewed sense of determination. Shortly after 1600, Kensi got everyone's attention. "Hey, guys, I think I found something." She pulled several documents up onto the big screen there in the bullpen.

"Looks like they're not just cooking the books," Deeks remarked. "These payments are tied to a non-existent defence project. Classic corruption tactic."

Callen's jaw visibly tightened as the pieces fell into place. This wasn't the first case of corporate greed turned treason he'd seen. His thoughts flickered to his former buddy, Ethan Stanhope, who ended up betraying his country for a massive payday provided by the Russian Mafia and putting a hit out on him.

"And here's the kicker," Kensi added, pulling him from his musings. "The same Naval officer signed these two bogus contracts. Captain Tyson Collier." She glanced between them all. "And they're both co-signed by one Matthew Delgado."

Rountree chimed in with a shake of the head. "It's like they're orchestrating some sort of puppet show with our military defence contracts."

"Yeah, I'll say!" Fatima agreed.

Callen looked between Kensi and Fatima. "Look into Collier's background and see what you two can find." He then turned towards Deeks and Rountree. "You two, dig deeper into Delgado's connections and financial records. Sam and I'll go and speak with some of the sailors in Captain Collier's unit."

Kensi nodded, already typing away on her tablet from the Operations Centre. "Got it, Callen. We'll get everything we can on Captain Collier."

With that, the team dispersed to handle their respective assignments. He quickly made his way to Hetty's office, filling her in on their findings. She frowned as she processed the information. "Tread carefully, Mr. Callen. If Captain Collier is indeed involved, we'll be stepping on some toes. Discretion is of the utmost importance."

He nodded, a sense of determination in his eyes. "I know, Hetty. I'll handle it."

His adoptive mother gave him a small smile. "Then go shoot the ducks."

Returning the smile, he went and met his partner outside in the carport. He and Sam then started the hour-and-a-half-long drive down to Naval Base Ventura County. With any luck, a member of Collier's unit would be able to give them a lead.

Chapter 82: The Duqu Dilemma

That day and the next were a bit hectic, Callen and Sam going back and forth between OSP Headquarters, Naval Base Ventura County, and TechTide.

Captain Collier's unit hadn't been able to give them much, but they were able to set a bit of a trap and interrupt the impromptu rendezvous between Collier and Delgado. Once they were both brought in - and interrogated by Deeks and Rountree - it became quite clear that Walker genuinely hadn't known much of what was going on.

At least the case was wrapped up with minimal damage and his and Sam's undercover aliases were still intact. It was as happy an ending as they could expect. They'd had Sunday off, but were once again back to work.

After some breakfast at Patrick's Roadhouse with Anna's friends Stacy and Emily, of course. He wasn't about to complain about kicking off his morning with some pigs in blankets and waffles, that's for sure.

As Callen and Anna entered the diner, the aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the sound of excited chatter and clinking silverware. Stacy and Emily waved excitedly from their booth, both their faces lighting up as they spotted him and Anna approaching.

"Hey, you two! So glad you could make it," Stacy greeted them, gesturing for the pair to sit down across from her and Emily.

Anna smiled warmly as they settled into the booth. "Thanks for inviting us, Stace. It's always nice to catch up over breakfast."

"So, how's everything going with you two?" Emily asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

Anna laughed as she picked up one of the menus. "Oh, just the usual hustle and bustle of setting up a nursery and trying to find a name we both like."

Stacy leaned forward slightly and eyed Anna curiously. "Do you two know if you're having a boy or girl yet?"

Anna exchanged a knowing glance with him before replying with a playful smile. "Yes, but we're going to keep it to ourselves."

Stacy nodded understandingly. "Fair enough. I'm just so happy for you both."

"So am I," Emily added earnestly. She turned to Callen. "Trading still going well?"

He chuckled, making sure to keep up their cover story. They thought that Callen was a securities trader, not having the clearance or need to know about OSP, and that Anna was an Event Planner. "Yeah. You know how it is, always keeping busy."

Emily gave a little snort. "I couldn't do it," she said. "I'm lousy at that stuff."

Callen flashed a sympathetic smile. And I would hate actually having that job. "It's not for everyone, but I like the challenge." Spotting a waitress finally coming their way, he smiled and changed the subject. "So, you three know what you're getting?"

After their breakfast, his wife dropped him off at OSP before heading into work herself - increasingly looking forward to the day she'd be off light duty. It was a frustration he understood all too well; going from being in the field to being stuck at the office was always a bit of a shock to the system.

Giving his wife a quick kiss, Callen turned and made his way down the carport, walking past his partner's black car and into the Office of Special Projects.

As Callen walked into the buzzing bullpen, he found his partner, Fatima, and Rountree already sitting at their desks. The junior agents were chatting away while Sam sipped on a large cup of coffee and seemingly scrolled through some files on his computer.

"Morning, G," Sam said, not looking up from his screen.

"Good morning," he replied, dropping his go-bag onto the ground below his own desk. "How was your run with DeChamps?" Callen started making his way over to the small coffee bar, wanting to pour himself a cup.

"It was nice," Sam replied, finally glancing up from his laptop. "We got a few miles in and stopped for a couple of açai bowls before I dropped her off."

Fatima glanced over with a small smile. "Morning, Callen," she said, taking a sip of her own coffee and starting to walk over.

"You and DeChamps have been spending a lot of time together," Rountree said pointedly, following closely behind Fatima.

Callen rolled his eyes in mild amusement as he poured himself a steaming mug of coffee. That wasn't exactly subtle. He hoped Rountree never lost that quality. Doing what they did it was so easy to forget how to leave the agent persona at the door.

Sam arched a brow but then smiled. "Yes, we're seeing each other. Taking it slow."

"That's fair," Rountree said with a small nod. "I get it."

Just as Callen was about to chime in, the main door swung open, and in walked Kensi and Deeks, their conversation audible even from across the room.

"... and then Mom said that she wanted to try that new restaurant on Grand Avenue for her birthday," Kensi was saying as she approached the bullpen.

Deeks chuckled as they walked. "Your mom's got good taste. I hear they have killer seafood." The blond glanced at the group. "Aloha kakahiaka, everyone."

"Morning," the rest of the team chorused back.

"Julia's birthday's coming up?" he inquired, having overheard part of the conversation as she and her husband walked in.

"Yep," Kensi confirmed happily. "And we're trying to plan something for her."

As they settled into their morning routine, exchanging casual banter and catching up on the previous day's events, Hetty's sudden appearance in the bullpen interrupted their conversation. The petite Operations Manager stood with her hands lightly clasped behind her back, her expression unreadable as usual.

"I'd better not find that selfie on your Instagram, Mr. Deeks," Hetty deadpanned.

"Of course not," Deeks replied immediately, looking slightly sheepish.

Hetty gave a little hum and then glanced at the rest of the team. "Special Agent Evans from Army CID's on the secured line up in Ops. He's requesting NCIS's assistance with a potential security threat as you've worked together before."

The team nodded and followed Hetty upstairs. As they all made their way up to the Operations Centre, Callen couldn't help but wonder what they were walking into. Army CID rarely reached out to the agency unless the situation was quite serious.

Once inside Ops, they found Special Agent Evans up on the big screen, his expression grave. Sam dipped his head. "Special Agent Evans."

Kensi gave the man a small smile. "Steve."

"Chief, Kensi," Evans replied, the man's tone friendly yet professional. The man looked at the rest of the team. "Agents, thank you for your time."

"No problem," Callen assured the man. "What's up?"

"Nothing good," Evans replied matter-of-factly. "My unit is tracking a man by the name of Josh Readshaw."

"Mr. Readshaw is a former member of the Equation Group suspected of going rogue," Hetty explained, pulling the man's file up onto the big screen.

Evans nodded. "Exactly," the Army CID agent stated. "And we believe that he's altered the original Duqu worm and created a new strain of it."

"So malware," Rountree said, clearly not liking the implications. "That can get ugly quickly."

"Duqu," Callen reiterated. "That's fairly similar to the Stuxnet worm, right? Primarily targeting networks associated with critical infrastructure such as energy, water supply, transportation, and telecommunications?"

"Yes," Evans confirmed. "We're still assessing the situation, but if Readshaw releases the Duqu worm, it will pose a significant threat to national security."

"And send the city spiralling," Fatima remarked.

He exchanged a quick glance with Sam, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "Not to mention the mass panic if any of those networks go down. And you think Readshaw's going to release this new altered worm on L.A?" If released, it could cripple all of the city's critical infrastructure, paralyzing the city.

"Our investigation has narrowed the two potential targets to either L.A. or Alexandria," the Army CID agent explained.

"Military hard targets or civilians?" Rountree asked.

"Both," Evans replied. "My partner's en route to Alexandria and I'm flying into LAX. We've already informed and briefed the other three and four-letter agencies on the situation."

"What do you need from us?" Sam asked.

"The evidence points to someone with deep pockets funding Readshaw," Evans replied. "We think that he'll be sent with shooters. I'm downloading the rest of our intel photos to you as we speak."

"Copy that," Fatima replied. "I'll start running it through Kaleidoscope and facial rec at our points of entry immediately."

"Yeah," Kensi agreed. "If they're in L.A., we'll find them."

"We'll also require your tactical support if we locate them," Evans said.

"Of course," Sam readily agreed.

He dipped his head slightly with a tight-lipped smile. "As soon as we locate them, we'll be ready to roll."

"Thanks," Evans said. "I'll be there in three hours."

"Copy that," he replied before turning and starting to walk towards the door.

Kensi eyed him. "Okay, so Fatima and I will work on locating Readshaw and his men."

He nodded. "Let us know when you find them."

"Will do," Kensi agreed.

"Rountree and I will grab the weapons from the cars and prep them," Deeks said as they all neared the top of the staircase.

"Alright, sounds good," he readily agreed. "Sam and I'll file the AARs and other reports for the TechTide case."

"What, 'we'?" Sam asked with a playful smirk. "You mean you'll file the reports while I supervise and make sure you don't procrastinate?"

He chuckled wryly as they descended the stairs. "Yeah, something like that, Partner."

Reaching into the bullpen, his mind lingered on the mention of the Duqu worm and the potential threat it posed to the city. The gravity of the situation was weighing on him, stirring a sense of unease within him.

Sitting down at their desks, he and Sam took out their laptops, getting down to work on the outstanding reports. Drawing on years of experience, Callen compartmentalized his emotions and focused on the task at hand. He knew it wasn't necessarily healthy but it was also a very useful skill on the job. A double-edged sword forged in the harsh fires of the C.I.A's Drona Project and the Foster Care system.

Deeks' voice drew his attention away from the Arrest Report that he was busy working on, causing him to glance up from his laptop. While they were all waiting to hear back from either Ops or Agent Evans, they sat down and chatted.

Deeks eventually made some comment that led to Rountree sharing a funny anecdote from his middle school years. He had just finished recounting the story and everyone, including Callen, was enjoying the easy camaraderie. That was until a slightly awkward part of the conversation popped up with Rountree asking, "So, what was middle school like for you guys?"

He couldn't help but feel a slight pang of discomfort at Rountree's question. His middle school years at his alma mater were not exactly the most pleasant.

Sitting in the brightly lit yet utilitarian classroom at Drona, his focus remained fixed on the Transposition Cipher on the desk in front of him. He was in the middle of one of their frequent one-on-one sessions. Callen's hand hovered over the worksheet, quickly jotting down the jumbled letters as he tried to decode the message.

Without warning, the sharp crack of wood meeting flesh echoed through the room as Mr. Pembrook delivered a swift strike to Callen's right hand. It wasn't the first time he'd felt the sting of the rod, and though it still hurt him, he suppressed any outward reaction, knowing it would just make things worse. After all, Mr. Pembrook had always told him not to feel. That he just had to fight through the pain.

Mr. Pembrook's eyes bore into him with icy intensity, his expression unforgiving as he spoke. "Pick up the pace, Seventeen," Mr. Pembrook ordered, the man's voice cutting through the air like a whip. "And finish the job.”

Callen's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he didn't protest. "Yes, sir." Instead, Callen channelled his frustration and embarrassment into his work, the thirteen-year-old's fingers moving with a practiced efficiency despite the dull throbbing in his hand as a result. Failure wasn't an option. Flashes of past failures and reprimands from the head teacher flickered through his mind. It never was.

Finally, trying to work as quickly as he could, Callen managed to decipher the code. He glanced up at the head teacher, his expression carefully neutral as he handed over the completed worksheet. "I'm done, sir."

Mr. Pembrook examined the paper, his eyes narrowing slightly before he nodded in approval. "Very well," the man replied. "You're getting quicker, Seventeen, though there's always room for improvement."

Callen found himself nodding along, a familiar sense of duty and obligation washing over him after so long in the training program. A slight note of pride as well at the subtle praise. "Yes, sir. I'll work harder."

"See that you do," Mr. Pembrook remarked. "You're a subject, Seventeen. An asset. Your training here and the missions you undergo after graduating from here are all that matter."

Callen pushed down a pang of frustration, nodding once again. Mr. Pembrook was right as always; this was his purpose. Nobody expected him to amount to or excel at anything outside of tradecraft. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Good," the head teacher replied. "Now, for our next lesson…" Walking over to the desk, the head teacher reached into the top drawer and pulled out what Callen immediately recognized as a taser. "Remember what I always tell you."

He swallowed his trepidation at seeing the taser, doing his best to keep his expression as neutral as possible, and nodded. "Don't cry, don't feel. Feelings cause pain."

"Exactly, Seventeen," Mr. Pembrook said with a curt nod. "Don't feel, feelings cause pain." Aiming the taser at the teen, the head teacher fired it, a wave of pain hitting him like a truck.

Callen grit his teeth, replaying the program's all-too-familiar mantra in his head, trying to do as asked. The endurance training was for his own good, after all.

With a subtle yet deliberate breath, Callen refocused on the present moment.

"Middle school was... interesting," Sam replied with a laugh, breaking the brief silence that had followed Rountree's question. "I loved it at Keating, though." A nostalgic grin tugged at the corners of the former SEAL's lips. "Went there from the seventh grade right through to senior year."

"And so did both of your kids," Callen added with an affectionate smile. If he could redirect the conversation, he was more than happy to do so. "But you couldn't pay me to go back. I did get sent to the principal's office my first morning at Oakwood Secondary, though." His high school years, he was fine discussing. "That was late my freshman year."

His partner tilted his head slightly. "Why'd you get sent to the principal's office?"

"Arguing with the English teacher during introductions," he admitted with a wry smile. "Hetty had just given me a lecture on not getting into fights too." The teacher had not wanted to call Callen by that name as requested, making up a random name for him. That was after she had accused Callen of lying about his first name being G. After his time in Drona, just being a subject number, her refusal to respect his choice of address had instantly rubbed him the wrong way.

"I bet she was thrilled," Rountree said.

Callen grinned. "She was a lot more understanding than I thought she would be." He'd fully expected to be thrown back into the foster system. She, instead, had sided with him and understood why he had been upset about the situation. Even when he hadn't been able to really understand it at the time himself.

Deeks arched a brow, smiling at him. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

He smirked. “Picked me up that afternoon and we went shopping for a bike.” 

His partner rolled his eyes, grinning teasingly. "Her soft spot for you started early."

Callen nodded in agreement. He'd felt like Hetty was spoiling him rotten when he had first moved in with her. The brand new wardrobe, school supplies, books, and being taken to the grocery store for the first time so he could tell her what foods he liked. It had been a major adjustment for a kid who came from and had nothing.

As the conversation drifted to lighter topics, Callen allowed himself to sink into the familiar banter of his team, feeling grateful for the makeshift family he had.

Shortly after their lunch break, a message popped up on his computer screen, drawing his attention away from the latest East African and Middle Eastern threat assessments that had been left at his desk for him to read. He always made sure to thoroughly look over them given their importance, closely following the situation in Palestine. He noted that it was an IntelliChat message from Kensi.

Callen quickly scanned the message with a small smile. 'Confirmation received. Agent Evans just landed at LAX.' He frowned slightly. 'Still no sign of Readshaw.'

Typing back a quick response to her, Callen filled the others in. There wasn't a lot they could do yet, though, until they found an actionable lead on Readshaw's location. With any luck, that would be sooner than later. He didn't really want to consider the fallout if they got to Readshaw too late. The clock was ticking.

Chapter 83: Culmination: Persistence and Closure

About forty minutes later, Agent Evans finally stepped into the bullpen, his expression grave as he approached Callen and the rest of the team. "Hey, everyone," man greeted them all with a small nod. "Any updates on Readshaw's location?"

Callen exchanged a quick glance with his teammates before responding. "Not yet, but Kensi and Fatima are working on it."

Evans nodded, his features tight with concern. "Alright. There a desk I can borrow?"

Sam indicated Kensi's currently unused desk with his right hand. "That one's free."

"Great," Evans said, contently taking the offered workstation.

As the team got back to work, the bullpen buzzed with activity, each member pouring over data and running through possible leads in search of their rather elusive target. Leads that seemed to be needles in a haystack.

Minutes turned into two hours. Finally, a breakthrough came in the form of Fatima and Kensi joining them down in the bullpen.

"We've got him!" Fatima announced happily.

A wave of relief washed over them as they gathered around Fatima, their eyes turning to the plasma screen as she quickly pulled the address and an image of the building in question up on it.

"He's holed up in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city," she continued, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she relayed the information.

"He won't be there for long once we get moving," Deeks chimed in, a grin spreading across the man's face.

He nodded, his jaw set with determination. "Yeah, let's move out. We don't wanna give this guy a chance to relocate again."

"You and me both," Evans readily agreed.

With the target finally in sight, the team sprang into action, swiftly grabbing their gear and making their way towards the warehouse. Adrenaline coursed through their veins as they approached, their senses on high alert for any sign of danger.

The familiar weight of his tactical gear provided Callen a sense of comfort, grounding him as he prepared to face whatever awaited them inside.

As they breached the warehouse, the team moved with precision and speed, clearing rooms and neutralizing threats with deadly efficiency. The air inside of the warehouse was thick with dust, the dim light filtering in through broken windows casting eerie shadows on the walls. Images of Pembrook's stern face flashed before his eyes, briefly reminding him of one of his Kill House evaluations at Drona.

He shook his and refocused on the current mission. Every creak of the floorboards echoed loudly in the vast space, mingling with the distant sounds of traffic outside. Finally, they reached the back of the warehouse, where Readshaw and another man now found themselves in a funnel.

With guns drawn and voices raised, the team moved in, surrounding Readshaw and his buddy with steely determination. Adrenaline surged through his veins, heightening his senses and sharpening my focus. They weren't about to give either man an opening to escape; they couldn't afford any mess ups here.

"Hands where we can see them!" Callen immediately demanded, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

"Drop your weapons!" his partner then commanded, matching Callen's tone.

Callen could see the defiance in both of their suspects' eyes, the tension coiled tight in his muscles as they weighed their options.

Rountree stepped forward, the young man's gaze unwavering. "We don't want anyone to get hurt. Just cooperate, and it'll go a lot easier for you."

It took a couple minutes, but they managed to make some headway at convincing the men to surrender rather than commit suicide by cop. "We're coming out," Readshaw said, his tone resigned.

He nodded, his grip on his weapon unwavering. "Smart move. Now, both of you step away from the weapons and get down on the ground, hands behind your heads."

As they led Josh Readshaw and Anthony Bouchard away in handcuffs, Callen breathed a large sigh of relief. We did it. We stopped the Duqu worm from being released and wreaking havoc on the city.

"Nice job, everyone!" Evans remarked, the man's gaze sweeping over the team. "Let's get these two into holding and wrap this thing up."

Sam dipped his head slightly. "You too, Evans."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Deeks quipped happily.

"I'll say," Rountree added with a small nod.

But their victory was tempered by the knowledge that their work was far from over. As they all returned to the office to file their After Action Reports and debrief, Callen knew it wouldn't be long before another case crossed their desk.

But for now, he could take solace in the fact that they had made the city a little safer, that there was now one less criminal out on the streets. All in all, the case had gone as well as any of them could've asked for.

As the last of the paperwork was filed and the debriefing concluded, Kensi and Deeks exchanged weary smiles, their thoughts already drifting homeward.

"Hey. Ready to head home to Rosa?" Kensi asked as she walked into the bullpen, her voice soft with exhaustion yet tinged with warmth.

Deeks nodded, smiling up at her. "Definitely, Kensilina."

With a shared nod, the group gathered their belongings and made their way out of the bustling bullpen, leaving behind the remnants of the day's intense operation.

Meanwhile, the rest of the team, including Hetty and Anna, gathered near the exit, their stomachs grumbling in unison as they contemplated their next move.

"So I don't know about you all, but I could really go for some Korean BBQ right about now," Fatima said, an eager glint in her eye.

"I'm in," Rountree replied without missing a beat.

"Me too," Sam readily agreed.

"I'm in," he replied before firing off a quick text to his wife. He wanted her there if she was free and, if course, feeling up to it.

As they continued discussing their post-operation plans, Hetty entered the bullpen with her usual air of authority, her presence instantly drawing their attention.

"Hey, Hetty," he said, greeted his adoptive mother with a respectful nod. Callen wasn't comfortable addressing her as Mom in front of Evans just yet. "We were just about to head out for some Korean BBQ. You in?"

Hetty regarded them with a faint smile, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses. "Thank you, Mr. Callen, but I'm afraid I have other matters to attend to this evening. A good friend is in town. Though, I do appreciate the invitation."

He nodded understandingly. "Of course, Hetty. Next time then."

"Next time," his adoptive mother agreed. "Enjoy your evening, everyone."

With a final nod from Hetty, the team proceeded to make their way out of the building, their spirits noticeably buoyed by the successful resolution of their latest case as well as the anticipation of a well-deserved meal together as a family.

Hopping into the Challenger, Evans took the back seat, correctly assessing that Callen wasn't about to give up his preferred seat. Shaking his head slightly, Sam pulled out of the car park, starting the drive to Koreatown.

As Sam began heading west on Wilshire Boulevard, Evans spoke up, evidently wanting to make some small talk. "So, Callen, you're from Los Angeles, right? Grew up here? I know Sam's from Brooklyn."

Sam dipped his head and smiled. "Damn straight."

"Yeah," he replied. "Bounced around a bit, but primarily here." He didn't really feel the need to go into further detail at the moment.

Evans nods, acknowledging Callen's response. Then, he leans back slightly in his seat, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. "Growing up in L.A. must've been quite the experience. Any funny stories from your school days? I remember getting into all sorts of mischief back in my day. Especially middle school."

Callen inwardly winced, several less than pleasant images from foster care and Drona crossing his mind. Outwardly, he smirked. "Let's just say that I wasn't doing anything you'd want your son doing." That has to be the understatement of the century.

His mind flickered back to when he was fifteen and had run away from his last foster home, a couple of days before he'd robbed a storage locker and earned himself a stint at Southgate Juvenile Detention Centre.

One evening, Callen found himself seeking refuge at a homeless shelter on Colorado Boulevard, where he had managed to secure a bed for the night. Like he had done a handful of times over the past two weeks. Callen had ran away from the Barlowes’ the night his older foster brother Jason had been beaten to death by their foster father while protecting him and he had no intentions of ever going back to that hellhole. Not to the foster home and not to that blasted training program.

As night fell, the fifteen-year-old found himself haunted by a vivid nightmare of his time at Drona, reliving his pain endurance training. Mr. Pembrook had electrocuted Callen before waterboarding him during one of their far too frequent one-on-one sessions.

Wanting some privacy, Callen got up and headed to the bathroom, hoping to escape the prying eyes of the other residents and the memories flooding him. But as he tried to compose himself in the dimly lit space, a voice from behind taunted him, a blond boy calling him a baby as he saw Callen's visible distress.

The cruel words struck a nerve, triggering a flood of conflicting emotions within Callen. He felt an all too familiar sting of shame and humiliation, compounded by a sense of frustration at his own vulnerability.

Mr. Pembrook had always told him not to cry, that it only caused pain. It was weakness. A notion that his numerous foster parents over the years did nothing to disabuse him of. Desperate to hide his reaction, he kept walking to the bathroom, trying to regain control over his emotions like he'd been taught.

As Callen made his way to the bathroom, he passed by two of the other boys, their hushed voices barely audible over the din of the shelter. "Hey, G, you okay?" one of them asked, concern etched in the boy's voice.

He nodded tersely, not trusting himself to speak as he quickened his pace, desperate to escape their probing gazes as fast as possible.

A minute later, Callen was opening the bathroom door. The scent of stale cigarette smoke and disinfectant hung heavy in the air as he stepped into the dimly lit room.

His tired gaze lingered on the pink floral tile on the ground, highlighting the grimness of his surroundings, starkly contrasting the innocence represented by the floral pattern and the harshness of his current reality. The sight triggered an intense surge of frustration and despair within him.

"It should've been me," the teen mentally chastised himself. "I should've died instead of Jason. All he did was try to look out for me."

Feeling overwhelmed by emotions that he couldn't articulate, Callen clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to contain his anger. He eyed his reflection in the large mirror. The haunted expression in his eyes reflected the pain and turmoil that churned within him, a reminder of the scars that refused to heal.

In a moment of raw vulnerability, his self-control slipped, and Callen lashed out with a primal scream of anguish, his fist connecting with the wall right next to the bathroom mirror with a resounding thud.

The impact of the punch left a sizeable hole in the drywall, a physical manifestation of the lonely teen's pent-up frustration and sense of powerlessness. For a fleeting moment, Callen allowed himself to revel in the brief release of tension that came with the act of destruction. It was a small but potent rebellion against the complete unfairness of his current circumstances.

But as the adrenaline began to fade, he was left with a sense of emptiness and regret, his right hand throbbing with pain as Callen surveyed the damage he had done. In the reflection of the mirror, Callen caught another glimpse of his own weary face, the shadows beneath his eyes a testament to the rough past year.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the mirror, steeling himself for another night of uncertainty and hardship. Despite the momentary relief offered by his little act of rebellion, he knew tomorrow wasn’t looking to shape out any better. Unless he returned to foster care, he had nowhere else to turn.

Back in the present, Sam shot Callen a quick look through the mirror, silently asking him if he was fine with the direction of the conversation. He returned the look with a small nod, not wanting his partner to worry.

Evans rolled his eyes, a look of fond exasperation crossing his face. "Ty's a freshman in college now, and I'm not sure which is worse."

"You're not wrong," Sam fired off with a laugh.

As they continued their drive, the chatter shifted to lighter topics, with Evans sharing amusing anecdotes from his own past and Sam chiming in with tales of his Brooklyn upbringing, many of which Callen already knew. He listened quietly, content to just let the banter wash over him as they made their way through the lively city streets.

Chapter 84: In Shadows' Clutches

The rest of the workweek dragged on in a blur of covert surveillance and tension, each day bleeding into the next with an almost relentless monotony. While Fatima went under as a honeytrap for a millionaire arms dealer, the rest of them were stuck on overwatch and following up on a few cold case leads.

Late Friday evening though, they were able to finally close the case, arresting Michael Harnett. With the man finally in custody, they filed their After Action Reports and were finally able to call it a night. Of course, for him that meant going home to his wife and nephew - who was spending that night and most of Saturday with them. That had been great.

As Monday morning arrived far too quickly, Callen woke up to the soft sunlight filtering in through the curtains, casting a warm glow over his and Anna's bedroom. Kissing his smiling wife on the forehead, Callen swung his legs off the side of the bed, going to throw some coffee on before he got ready for another workweek.

As he walked back into the kitchen after a quick shower, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted him. Callen poured himself a cup, relishing the rich scent.

His wife finally emerged from the bedroom, her long, blonde hair tousled from sleep but her eyes bright with morning energy. She wrapped her arms around Callen from behind, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "Morning, handsome," she murmured tenderly.

"Morning, beautiful," he replied with an affectionate smile of his own, turning to gently pull her in for a much-less-chaste kiss.

They embraced each other for a long moment before reluctantly breaking apart, Callen pouring his wife a coffee. They both smiled at each other as they sipped their coffees and then went to throw on some cinnamon raisin bagels.

As Callen and Anna enjoyed their coffee and bagels, they discussed their plans for the day, mainly Anna's doctor's appointment later on, and trying to sort out a couple more things for when their baby finally came. They had finally settled on at least one of the purchases when Anna's cell phone buzzed with an incoming call.

His wife quickly glanced down at the call display before answering it with a smile. "Allo, Liza!" she said warmly, her voice carrying across the room. "Kak dela? Chto ty sobirayesh'sya delat' segodnya vecherom?" (Hey, Liza! How are you? What are you up to tonight?)

He listened to his wife's side of the conversation as he finished the rest of his coffee, a fond smile playing on his lips. God, I love her.

While Anna chatted animatedly with her cousin, he leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing his things. "I'm gonna go get a run in before work," he said, receiving a small nod of understanding from the blonde.

With her engrossed in her conversation, he waved and then stepped out into the crisp morning air. His breath formed clouds in front of Callen as he set off on his familiar route through the neighbourhoods. The rhythmic pounding of his footsteps echoed in his ears, matching the steady beat of his heart as he lost himself in the simple act.

As he ran, Callen let his mind wander, enjoying the solitude and the feeling of freedom that came with each stride. Callen breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the cool air, feeling invigorated as he embraced the calm of the early morning hours.

As Callen continued his run, his senses heightened by the crisp air and the rhythmic pounding of his footsteps, he couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched. It was a subtle sense of unease that prickled at the back of his neck, but he brushed it aside, attributing it to the remnants of the tension from the previous week's case. Of course, the last time he'd felt like this he'd eventually taken five rounds to the chest.

However, as he rounded a corner and veered onto a less populated street, the feeling intensified, and Callen's instincts went on high alert. Before he could react, three individuals emerged and boxed him in, their figures all obscured by sunglasses and hoodies, their intentions clear. Callen's instincts screamed at him to fight or flee, but they'd done well cornering him.

"What's this about?" Callen inquired, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He didn't really expect a response, but it was worth a shot. Some perps did like to elucidate; normally the less experienced or more arrogant ones.

No response came from the assailants, their silence only heightening Callen's sense of dread. Shit, these guys are professionals.

With swift precision, the three assailants closed in on Callen, overpowering him with a combination of brute force and tactical skill. Despite his training and physical prowess, Callen found himself outmatched by their coordinated assault.

As the struggle ensued, Callen fought back with everything that he had, his fists flying in a blur of motion, each strike of his fuelled by determination and desperation. But for every blow he landed, two more seemed to rain down upon him, slowly wearing away at his defences. Still, he wasn't going to give up that easy. He had been trained better than that and knew how to handle himself.

"You're making this harder than it needs to be," one of the assailants growled, his voice devoid of warmth.

"Good," he retorted, his voice dripping with defiance.

In a last-ditch effort to break free, Callen unleashed a barrage of kicks and punches, managing to momentarily disorient one of his attackers. He quickly turned and gave one of the other attackers a punch to the temple. Seizing the opportunity, he tried to make a run for it. His escape attempt was cut short, however, as he felt a sharp sting accompanied by a burning sensation as a syringe found its mark in his upper left arm.

As the sedative began taking effect, Callen's vision started to blur and his limbs grew heavy. With a final surge of defiance, Callen fought against the encroaching darkness. Callen's last thoughts were of both his wife and unborn child, a silent prayer for their safety echoing through his mind before he ultimately succumbed to unconsciousness, his world fading to black.

In the silence that followed, the three assailants exchanged satisfied glances before swiftly carrying Callen's limp form into the back of a small van, tossing his cell phone and other personal effects on the ground before driving away.

As he gradually emerged from unconsciousness, a surge of panic momentarily gripped him. His heart pounded in his chest, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as he noted his surroundings. The darkness seemed suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides, and for a brief moment, fear threatened to overwhelm him. What do they want? Is Anna safe? If they hurt her… What about Alex and Jake?

Callen shook his head, trying to shake those thoughts away. He drew upon the familiar mantra that had guided him through countless harrowing situations in the past. "Don't feel, feelings cause pain," he mentally chastised himself. "Focus."

With each mental repetition of the mantra, Callen felt the panic recede, replaced by a steely resolve that settled deep within him. The longtime operative forced himself to push aside the fear and uncertainty, channelling his energy into a strategic assessment of his situation. He'd been raised for this, prepared. He just needed to focus.

Taking stock of his surroundings, Callen carefully tested the strength of his restraints, methodically searching for any weaknesses or vulnerabilities that he could exploit. His hands were both securely bound behind his back with thick ropes, and both of his legs were similarly restrained to the chair, leaving Callen unable to move freely. He also noted that his captors had removed both his t-shirt and sneakers.

He then scanned his prison, searching for any potential means of escape or tools that he could use to aid his escape efforts. The room was small and sparsely furnished, its walls made of rough concrete and its only illumination coming from a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was only one door out, probably locked by the person who had thrown him in there. There was no window either.

His gaze then fell upon a small ventilation grate near the ceiling, its metal bars rusted and worn from years of neglect. It was a slim chance, but Callen knew that desperate times called for desperate measures. Still, he was going to have to get himself untied first. And he couldn't see a sharp edge that he could use as a makeshift knife either. He would need another way to get the restraints off then. Maybe I can trick them into untying me? I doubt they'll transfer me again though. Where are they anyway?

As Callen pondered his next move, he strained his ears, listening intently for any sign of his captors' presence. The silence that enveloped the room was almost deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the aged ventilation system and the sound of his own deliberate breathing. He was alone. His captors had likely left him there to stew in his own fear and uncertainty, a tactic designed to break his spirit and weaken his resolve. But Callen wasn't about to let them succeed.

With a grim determination, he embraced the darkness within, letting it consume him like a second skin. Gone was the husband, the uncle, the friend, the NCIS agent. In his place stood Subject Seventeen, a predator poised to strike, his instincts honed to lethal precision over years of training and field experience.

As he surveyed his surroundings with calculating eyes, his lips curled into a predatory smirk. The ropes that currently bound him were nothing more than temporary obstacles, easily overcome with time and patience. After all, he'd been breaking out of secured facilities since the ripe age of fifteen.

With a slight tilt of his head, Callen started twisting and turning his hands to create slack, all the while mentally strategizing for when he found himself face-to-face with his captors once more. Let them come. I am ready.

Chapter 85: Blizzard's Shadow

The rough fibres of the rope dug into both of his wrists as Callen methodically twisted and turned his hands, Callen's movements steady and deliberate. Despite the urgency of his situation, Callen remained eerily calm, keeping himself focused on the task at hand. This was not Callen's first time as a captive, after all. Far from it, unfortunately.

As Callen worked to free himself from his restraints, a faint rustling sound reached his ears, accompanied by the muffled clink of metal against concrete. His senses instantly sharpened, his muscles tensing in anticipation of the imminent threat. And I was so close. Just needed a couple more minutes.

The door swung open, admitting two shadowy figures into the dimly lit room. He didn't flinch; Callen's gaze locked on the newcomers with a steely resolve that betrayed none of the fear that wanted to churn in his gut. He was resourceful and wasn't about to let a couple of goons catch him off guard again.

"Well, well, looks like Sleeping Beauty's finally awake!" one of the figures quipped, his voice dripping with contempt. He recognized him as one of the assailants from the earlier ambush, not that it provided a whole lot of information.

"Though, his face isn't quite so pretty now!" the other man said with a smirk, referring to the bruise forming on Callen's cheek and the small cut on his lip.

As the second man's taunts echoed in the room, he couldn't help but let out a cheeky hum, Callen's lips curling into a sly grin. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. And the more he could get them to react, the more he could learn about them.

The captors exchanged a glance, their expressions hardening as they realized Callen wasn't going to be an easy target.

The first man stepped towards him, the guy's eyes narrowing into slits as he leaned in close to Callen's face. "You think you're smart, huh?" he growled, the man's breath hot against his cheek. "Well, let me tell you something, tough guy. We've dealt with your kind before, and you always crack."

He didn't flinch, meeting the man's gaze with a steely resolve. "Is that so?" he replied, his voice calm and composed despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. I'd rather die than be responsible for getting innocent people killed.

The second man, growing impatient, roughly grabbed Callen by the collar and yanked him forward, his face twisting into a snarl. "Enough games," the guy spat. "Now, we're going to have a little chat."

"Chat about what?" Callen asked casually, his voice laced with a hint of defiance. "The weather? Or maybe you want to discuss your poor choice in career paths."

The second man's grip tightened, but Callen didn't flinch. Instead, Callen kept his gaze steady, searching for any clues that might give away their intentions.

"We don't have time for your smart mouth," the first man snapped, his frustration palpable. "You're going to tell us everything we want to know, whether you like it or not."

Callen chuckled softly, a wry smile playing on his lips. "You know, I've always been a fan of suspense. Why don't you start by telling me who you're working for?"

The second man smirked. "All in good time." The guy picked up a blade from the kit he'd walked in with and played with it menacingly, trying to intimidate him. "So, why don't you tell me about Operation Blizzard."

His heart skipped a beat at the mention of Operation Blizzard but he fought to keep his expression neutral. He hadn't heard that name in a while. It was a top-secret military contingency plan he'd consulted on a number of years ago which specifically detailed how the U.S would respond to a terrorist attack on a target of interest in Japan or East Asia. Not good in the wrong hands.

He decided to play dumb. "Operation Blizzard?" Callen repeated, his voice laced with false innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The second man's smirk widened slightly, clearly not buying Callen's act. "Nice try, but we know you're involved," the man replied, shoving a photograph towards Callen. "You attended the think-tank."

"Look," he began, his voice calm but assertive, "I get you think I'm involved in whatever Blizzard is, but I assure you, you've got the wrong guy."

The first man sneered, his patience wearing thin. "We've got evidence linking you to Blizzard, Agent Callen. You're not fooling anyone."

Callen maintained his composure, searching for any sign of weakness in his captors. He really needed to find a way to turn the tables on them, to regain some control of the situation.

"Time to make you talk," the second man said, his voice dripping with malice. "We'll see how long you can keep up this charade." With that, the man began advancing towards Callen. With a cruel smirk, he pressed the knife against Callen's skin, drawing a thin line of blood along his chest.

He breathed deeply at the pain, refusing to give either of his captors the satisfaction of hearing him cry out or react. Pain is just a state of mind. Don't feel.

"Tell us what we want to know, Agent Callen," the second man said, his voice low and menacing. "Or things are going to get a lot worse for you."

"I've always liked a challenge," he quipped.

"Just makes you funner to break," the second man retorted with a smirk. As expected, he resumed cutting into Callen's chest.

As the blade sliced through his skin, Callen breathed through the pain, focusing on his plan. Callen refused to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, yet timing was everything. With each cut, he reminded himself to accept what was happening to him and it would come to an end.

Eventually, the second man put the knife down. The first man grabbed a bucket and filled it with water from the nearby tap. Meanwhile, the second man picked up a wet sponge and put it inside the clamps of a car jump starter.

With a menacing grin, the second captor then approached Callen, the bucket of water sloshing in his hand. Callen's muscles tensed, his breath coming in deliberately shallow as he prepared for the onslaught of pain that was sure to follow.

As the wet sponge made contact with his skin, a jolt of electricity shot through Callen's body, sending searing pain coursing through him. "Don't cry, crying causes pain!" he mentally barked. "Don't feel."

The seconds turned into minutes and then finally he was given a slight reprieve.

The first man watched with a sadistic grin, revelling in Callen's suffering. "Had enough yet, tough guy?" he taunted, his voice laced with malice.

His only response was a defiant glare, his eyes burning with unyielding resolve.

"Give us the timeline and logistics for Operation Blizzard," the second man said. "What weaknesses in it can we exploit?"

"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about," he insisted with a shaky breath, his voice strained but defiant.

The second man's grip visibly tightened on the clasps, his expression darkening with frustration. With a grim determination, he braced himself as the second man pressed the sponge against his skin once again, sending another surge of electricity coursing through Callen's body. As the seconds stretched into agonizing minutes, he focused all of his energy on maintaining his composure.

Finally, the man pulled the sponge away and gave him another reprieve.

The first man quirked an eyebrow as he observed Callen. "You're a tough one, I'll give you that," he remarked. "But even the toughest guys have their breaking point."

Callen met the first man's gaze with a defiant glare, refusing to show any weakness in the face of his two tormentors.

They asked Callen a few questions, met by his sarcastic retorts, before resorting to the electric shocks yet again. Rinse, repeat. This pattern continued three more times until his tormentors opted to switch things up again.

With a cruel gleam in his eyes, the first man reached for a syringe filled with a potent substance, his intentions quite clear.

"You've been quite the challenge, Callen," the interrogator sneered, his voice dripping with malice, "but we have other ways of making you talk." Before Callen could react, the small needle pierced Callen's skin, injecting the drug into his right arm. "A little Scopolamine should loosen that tongue of yours." Almost immediately, Callen felt an intense wave of dizziness wash over him, his thoughts becoming a bit muddled and disjointed. Then again it was nicknamed Truth Serum for a reason.

With a pleased smile, the second man delivered a harsh blow to his abdomen, causing Callen to jerk forward slightly in the chair, the ropes digging into his wrists and ankles. Another followed with a brutal punch to his jaw by the first man, sending Callen's head snapping to the side. Callen did his best to focus on his immediate goal - not divulging information - and controlling his breathing. It helped with the nausea from the drugs a little bit as well, thankfully.

He didn't know how long his tormentors were beating him for exactly but after several long minutes, the onslaught of punches and kicks finally stopped. As expected, the sea of questions then immediately resumed, his interrogators not wanting to give Callen a real chance to pull himself together.

Despite the intense pain coursing through his body, he fought hard to stay conscious and focused. It took every ounce of willpower that he could muster amidst the haze of drugs and pain. Callen knew that he needed to find any potential advantage he could exploit, however.

As his tormentors continued their relentless assault, Callen's mind raced, searching. Callen analyzed their movements, their words, looking for any hint of vulnerability that he could use to his advantage.

As the minutes turned into hours, Callen's strength began to wane slightly. The pain, the drugs, the mind games his captors were now playing were beginning to wear him down, chipping away at his resolve bit by bit. He was exhausted. Still, Callen kept on mentally chanting the mantra he had learned in his youth, using it to ground himself. 'Pain is just a state of mind. Don't feel.' It gave him something to focus on.

He had no reliable sense of time by that point, but was grateful for the short reprieve, if temporary, when the first man who Callen figured was the leader of the two, a rather burly man, reached for his cell phone.

"Wéi, gàn má ne?" the leader answered gruffly in Mandarin, his tone betraying no hint of the cruelty he had inflicted on Callen moments before. His Chinese was rudimentary at best, but he could make that sentence out at least. (Hey, what's up?)

Callen strained to hear the muffled voice on the other end of the line, his mind racing with possibilities. Is it a call about me? A change in plans? Another job?

The first man spoke in a low and urgent tone, with Callen just managing to make out the Mandarin words shì (yes) and mǎshàng (soon).

With a grunt of acknowledgment, the leader hung up the phone, the man's gaze fixing on Callen with a mixture of irritation and anticipation. "Looks like we're done for now," he grunted, motioning to his partner to deal with Callen.

The second man roughly grabbed Callen by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Callen's muscles protested against the sudden movement, his body still reeling from the earlier beating. Ignoring his protests, the second man dragged Callen across the small room and forced him into a stress position on the cold, hard floor.

With a satisfied smirk, the second man stepped back, his gaze lingering on Callen for a moment longer before he abruptly turned and followed the first man out of the room, leaving Callen alone in his cell at last.

Callen gritted his teeth against the pain, his muscles screaming in protest as he struggled to maintain the highly awkward sitting position. But he refused to cave like his jailers wanted, his jaw clenched in determination as he endured the torment.

He was in for one hell of a night but this wasn't his first rodeo. Still, Callen couldn't help but hope that his team found him soon.

Chapter 86: A Desperate Gambit

As the hours dragged on, Callen found himself trapped in a nightmarish cycle of pain and exhaustion. Left in the stress position presumably overnight, Callen was deprived of any chance to rest or recuperate. The harsh bay lights in the cell didn't help either. Every muscle in Callen's body screamed in protest, but he refused to give his captors the satisfaction of hearing him beg for anything, let alone mercy.

Trying to distract himself he thought of half-truths and lies he could weave to try and make it through the next round of interrogation. That and whatever else he could use to distract himself from the physical discomfort.

Eventually, the door to his makeshift cell creaked open, and the familiar figures of his tormentors entered, both their expressions twisted into cruel grins. Memories of past interrogations flooded his mind.

"Ready for round two, tough guy?" the second man taunted, brandishing a syringe no doubt filled with Scopolamine yet again.

Callen took a deliberate breath, steadying himself. "You're not getting anything from me," he replied, his voice slightly strained from the fatigue. Come on, G. Control your emotions.

Without a word, the man injected him with Scopolamine once again, the drug seeping into his veins and clouding his thoughts. Questions assaulted him from all sides, each one more relentless than the last. Callen was now sporting all manner of cuts, bruises and burns. The only thing that hadn't left a visible mark on Callen was the waterboarding he'd been subjected to.

His head began spinning with confusion again, his answers muddled and disjointed as the anticholinergic drug took hold.

"I don't know... what you're talking about," he slurred, trying to focus enough on his words to not give anything away. That and trying not to throw up from the effects of the damn drugs. God, he felt absolutely awful. Focusing on his breathing did help with the nausea somewhat at least.

"Don't play dumb, Callen," the first man remarked in a clipped tone. "You were a consultant on it. Now, tell us how to disrupt Operation Blizzard."

"Or a name," the second man said. "A name of anyone else involved in Blizzard."

"I don't know any names," he said, repeating the same response he had given every other time he was asked. "I won't help you hurt innocent people."

The first man's lip curled into a sneer. "Your loyalty is admirable, Callen. It'll be fun to see how long that holds out." With that, the man picked up a mallet and started taking it to Callen's fingers, faking out quite a bit to mess with Callen's head.

The long-time operative couldn't help but think back to when the same thing had been done to him in the name of training. Although, he hadn't been kneeling then.

Eight-year-old Callen was sitting in the Interrogations classroom at Drona, his small frame restrained, his small hand vulnerable and exposed. The metallic tang of blood and the sharp, lingering notes of cologne filled the air, intertwining to create a disconcerting symphony of odours that played with his senses.

Unable to contain his pain and fear any longer, tears streamed down the young boy's cheeks, mingling with the crimson stains that marred his fingers.

His heart pounded, and his body tensed, bracing for the next blow, both physically and emotionally, as the head teacher banged the mallet on the wooden table just in front of his fingers, taunting him.

"Don't cry," Mr. Pembrook's voice rang out, cold and detached. The mallet hovered menacingly over Callen's fragile fingers, each movement a calculated act of control. His words echoed with an indifference that an adult Callen found both infuriating and heartbreaking. "Crying causes pain."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Callen mustered the strength to meet Mr. Pembrook's gaze. Callen's voice trembled, the vulnerability seeping through his words. "How do I not cry?"

The mallet struck sharply between two of his fingers, eliciting a stifled gasp from Callen who was grappling to regain control over his emotions. Mr. Pembrook's callous response echoed in his ears. "Like I've been telling you. Don't feel. Remember?" Callen took a breath and then glanced down at both the mallet and his bloody hand. "Feelings cause pain."

Refocusing on the present, he took a deep breath, pushing down the fear and pain as much as he could. Pain's just a state of mind. I can do this. Don't feel.

Hours passed in a blur of pain and interrogation, until blessedly, his tormentors were called away again. With a dismissive wave of their hands, the two men left him alone once again, his body trembling with exhaustion and discomfort.

As time passed in the agonizing new stress position, his muscles screamed in protest as he was forced to maintain the uncomfortable posture. Still, he resolved to endure. He could hear Pembrook's voice in his head bluntly saying, "You must persevere, Seventeen, not capitulate." He allowed it to fuel him.

After what felt like an eternity, Callen heard the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor outside. He tensed, bracing himself for the inevitable return of his tormentors. However, to his surprise, it wasn't the two interrogators; instead, it was a young man, barely more than a boy, carrying a small tray of food and water. Lunch. Or is it dinner? He no longer knew what time it was, a deliberate move on his captors' part.

Callen eyed the newcomer with wary curiosity, his guard still firmly in place despite the sudden change in his circumstances. He knew way better than to let his guard down in his situation. He needed to stay as alert and sharp as possible.

The young man approached him cautiously, setting the tray down on the floor in front of Callen, his movements slightly hesitant and uncertain.

"Here," the young man mumbled in strongly accented English, his voice barely above a whisper. "I bring you some food and water."

"Thanks," he murmured softly, deliberately lowering his gaze. Playing meek was likely his best shot at making the young man let his guard down.

Callen allowed the boy to help him kneel properly and undo his hands so he could eat. Knowing that he needed to keep up his strength if he was going to survive this, Callen alternated between tiny sips of water from the plastic cup and the plain rice until both were gone. Hoping that the meagre meal would stay down, he then took advantage of the opening. It was a desperate gambit that he couldn't afford to not play.

With a quick, fluid motion, Callen lunged forward, grabbing the young man by the neck and pulling the kid into a chokehold before he could react. The kid gasped in surprise, his hands flailing as he struggled against Callen's grip, but it was no use. With a swift twist, Callen applied pressure to the carotid artery, cutting off the flow of blood to the young man's brain and rendering him unconscious within seconds.

As the young man slumped to the ground, he wasted no time. He quickly sprang to his feet and darted towards the door, his heart pounding in his chest with each step. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, driving him forward even as his body protested against the exertion. Choking the young man had zapped a lot of his energy, unfortunately.

With a burst of speed that he didn't know he still had in him, Callen reached the heavy metal door and yanked it open, giving each direction a quick once-over before settling on heading left. He could hear several men's voices coming from the right and he had no intentions of running into any of them.

As Callen swiftly made his way down the dimly lit corridor, his senses on high alert, he kept a keen eye out for any sign of movement or activity. Every shadow seemed to hold a potential threat, every creak of the floorboards beneath his feet a reminder of the danger lurking around every corner.

As he rounded a corner, he spotted a staircase leading upwards. Without hesitation, he bounded up the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. With each step, he could feel the tension in his muscles easing slightly, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only: escape.

As he reached the top of the stairs, Callen paused for a moment to catch his breath, his heart pounding in his chest with the exhilaration of the chase. But there was no time to waste. With renewed determination, he pushed forward, his eyes scanning the hallway for any sign of an exit.

As Callen pressed on, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, he rounded another corner and found himself face to face with a man with a rather unassuming figure. The man in question brandished a knife, however, his eyes glinting with malice as he advanced towards Callen with purpose.

Instinct kicked in, and he reacted with lightning speed. He dodged the first strike, narrowly avoiding the blade as it sliced through the air. With a swift movement, he grappled with the assailant, their bodies twisting and turning in a deadly dance.

The knife glinted in the dim hallway light as the pair struggled for control. His muscles strained as he fought to overpower the together man, the long-time operative running largely on adrenaline-fuelled determination.

In a desperate bid for survival, he managed to wrestle the knife from the man's grasp. His movements lacked their usual precision and efficiency, given his current state, but he was desperate. Going off of pure instinct, Callen forcibly thrust the blade forward, aiming for the back of his assailant's head.

The blade roughly sank into the back of the assailant's head with a sickening squelch, piercing through the brain stem in a fatal blow. The man then crumpled into his arms, lifeless and still, and Callen gently lowered him to the ground. Hopefully, nobody heard that scuffle. I could barely handle a one-on-one fight.

Breathing heavily, he stood over the fallen man for a moment, his heart still pounding with the intensity of the recent fight. But there was no time to dwell on what had just transpired. I have to keep moving.

With a steely resolve, he left the man where he lay, his focus now solely on escape. He knew that every second counted and he couldn't afford to lose focus.

At the end of the hallway, he spotted a door that was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light streaming through the crack. Without hesitation, Callen made his way towards it, his movements quick and purposeful.

He knew that his escape was far from guaranteed, but he was damn well going to try. With a silent prayer that he was anywhere close to civilization, Callen then pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool night air.

As he stepped out into the night air, he found himself in a small courtyard surrounded by a tall barbwire fence. The sound of barking dogs echoed in the distance, serving as a grim reminder of the dangers that still lurked nearby.

He scanned his surroundings, his mind racing with possibilities. Escape seemed within reach, but he knew he couldn't let his guard down just yet. With cautious steps, Callen moved towards the fence, his senses on high alert for any sign of pursuit.

Hearing noise coming from behind him, Callen carefully snuck around a nearby corner, watching intently as four men entered the building.

Once they were inside, Callen knew time was running out. He carefully started looking for a more discrete exit. Not able to find a break in the fence, nor having shoes, he took the risk of heading back towards the front and leaving from there.

Callen had just crossed the threshold of the property when he heard someone yell, "Tā zài nàbiān!" or "He's over there!" from by the main doors. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Callen quickly realized that he had indeed been spotted.

Trying to summon every ounce of energy he had left, Callen began running, ducking in and out of a few alleyways in a desperate attempt at losing his pursuers. His feet were sore and a bit cut up now but that was the least of his problems.

With his pursuers closing in on him, Callen scanned his surroundings frantically for a means of escape. Or at least for somewhere to take cover. Spotting a large recycling bin nearby, he dashed towards it, his heart pounding in his chest.

Without hesitation, he flung open the lid of the recycling bin and leaped inside, pulling the lid shut behind him just as his pursuers rounded the corner.

Holding his breath, Callen pressed himself against the side of the bin, praying that he wouldn't be discovered. The sound of footsteps grew louder as Callen's pursuers drew nearer, their voices echoing through the narrow Chinatown alleyway.

Callen could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he waited, every second feeling like an eternity. He dared not make a sound, not even a whisper, for fear of giving away his position. His mind was racing with a mixture of fear and determination. He couldn't afford to get caught now, not after everything he had endured.

Minutes passed like hours as he remained hidden inside the recycling bin, the darkness enveloping him like a shroud. He strained his ears, listening intently for any sign of his pursuers moving on.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Callen heard the sound of footsteps fading into the distance. With a silent sigh of relief, Callen cautiously cracked open the lid of the recycling bin and peered outside. The sound of his own ragged breaths filled his ears, drowning out the distant sounds of city nightlife.

The coast appeared to be clear, but Callen knew that he couldn't afford to let his guard down just yet. With a silent prayer of thanks, he clambered out of the bin and darted down the alleyway, disappearing into what appeared to be an abandoned house.

Entering the abandoned house, the air inside was thick with dust and the musty smell of neglect. Not the best place he'd ever crashed, but then not the worst either. He had lived in a lot of flophouses over the years. Plus, there was a large shard of glass from the broken window that he could use as a weapon. It'll do.

Callen found a small, dusty room upstairs with only a shoddy mattress leaning up against a wall. Using it to block the bedroom door, a rather exhausted Callen then collapsed onto the old mattress, his body trembling with fatigue and discomfort. The adrenaline that had sustained him through his escape now gave way to a bone-deep weariness, leaving him feeling drained. Closing his eyes, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter 87: A Callen Odyssey

When he finally awoke for the last time, it was to the dim light filtering through the dusty windows of the abandoned house. His body still ached but he felt a lot better than he had, even if still a little tired.

Pushing himself upright, Callen glanced around the room, his mind already working on a plan. First things first, he really needed to find a way to contact his team to let them know his status. For now, Callen was on foot and anonymous, meaning he stood half a chance at making it to the Boatshed. The office wasn't even on the table, for obvious reasons. Unfortunately, that exact same reason meant that he had to be exceptionally careful until he was firmly out of Chinatown.

With a grunt, he pushed the old mattress aside. He then crept out of the bedroom and made his way toward the stairs. He paused, listening for any sign of movement below. Hearing nothing, Callen descended the creaky steps one at a time, his senses on high alert after the past couple of days.

Reaching the ground floor, he slipped out the back door and into the alley, his senses on high alert as he moved silently through the shadows.

As he made his way toward the outskirts of Chinatown, he kept to the alleyways and side streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where he might be more easily spotted by his pursuers.

Finally, Callen reached the edge of the neighbourhood and spotted a restaurant that he recognized in the distance. Men's Central Jail wasn't far now, and with it, the promise of payphones to contact his team with.

With renewed determination, he quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest as he felt a reinvigorated spark of hope.

Finally, Callen reached a payphone outside the jail, his heart pounding in anticipation as he picked up the receiver and dialled the familiar number of his adoptive mother. With each ring, his anxiety grew, and when the familiar voice answered on the other end, a wave of relief washed over him. "Hello?"

"It's me," he replied softly, filled with relief at hearing the petite woman's voice.

"Callen," his adoptive mother replied, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief and concern. "Where are you? Are you alright?"

"I've... I've escaped," Callen explained, his voice not as steady as he would've liked. "I'm in Chinatown, near the intersection of Bauchet and Alameda."

"Chinatown?" Hetty reiterated. "Alright, stay put. Your partner will be there to extract you shortly."

He exhaled. "Thanks, Ma. I owe you one."

"Oh, on the contrary, dear," his adoptive mother said. Her response was swift and firm. "We're family. This is what we do."

"Understood." With that, Callen hung up the phone and leaned against the booth, his fatigue momentarily forgotten in the rush of adrenaline.

As Callen waited, he scanned the surroundings, looking for a safe vantage point where he could remain hidden but still keep an eye on both directions of the street. Spotting a nearby alley with decent visibility, Callen perched there, his senses on high alert for any sign of his former captors.

After ten long minutes, Callen's eyes locked onto the sleek, black form of his partner's Dodge Challenger pulling up to the curb. Taking a breath, Callen stepped back out into the open so Sam could see him.

As the car door opened, Sam emerged, his expression a mix of relief and concern as the man took in Callen's appearance. Without a word, Sam approached him, his movements purposeful yet cautious, as if unsure whether this was real or some cruel trick.

"Callen," Sam said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out to clasp his partner's shoulder. "You're okay."

He nodded, the weight of everything that had happened over the past couple of days crashing down on him now that he was safe. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm okay."

Sam's grip tightened briefly before he released him, stepping back to give Callen some space. "We'll debrief later. Right now, let's get you back to the boatshed."

With a nod, he followed his partner to the Hellcat, sinking into the passenger seat with a weary sigh. As they drove away from Chinatown, the tension that had coiled tightly in Callen's chest began to loosen with each passing mile. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the familiar sights of Los Angeles passing by outside the window were like a balm to his frayed nerves.

Sam glanced over at Callen from the driver's seat, concern etched in his features. "No offence, but you look like hell, G. Anything I can do?"

Callen managed a faint smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Thanks, Partner. Just getting out of there is enough for now."

Sam nodded, his gaze returning to the road ahead as they navigated the streets of Los Angeles. The silence between the two men was comfortable, a testament to the years of camaraderie and understanding that the pair shared. Sixteen years.

As they approached the boatshed, Callen's mind began to drift, replaying the events of the past few days. Apparently, it was showing on his face, because Sam began playing some jazz music on the radio for a momentary distraction.

Pulling into the boatshed's parking lot, Sam cut the engine and turned to face Callen. "We're here, G. Let's get you inside."

Nodding, Callen silently followed Sam out of the car and into the familiar confines of the Boatshed. The sound of voices greeted them as they entered, the rest of the team already gathered and waiting for him. As was Director Vance.

Hetty was the first to approach, her expression a mix of relief and concern as she took in Callen's rather rough appearance. Thankfully, Aiden had left a t-shirt in the back of Sam's vehicle or he would've felt even more exposed. "Mr. Callen, I trust you're in one piece?" Do you need medical attention?

He managed a nod, his fatigue beginning to catch up with him now that the adrenaline was wearing off. "I'm fine, Hetty." It's nothing that can't wait.

"Good, good." Hetty then turned toward Sam, her gaze softening with gratitude. "And thank you, Mr. Hanna, for bringing your wayward partner home."

Sam inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Just doing my job." He then shot Callen a teasing grin. "Someone's got to look after this knucklehead."

Callen rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.

As Hetty and Sam exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgment, the rest of the team approached Callen, their expressions a mix of relief and concern.

Kensi was the first to reach him, swiftly enveloping Callen in a tight bear hug. "Callen, we were so worried about you," she said softly.

He returned the hug, despite not being much of a hugger himself. "Thanks, Kens. It's good to be back."

Deeks followed suit, giving Callen a quick pat on the back before stepping back with a grin. Rountree and Fatima approached him next, each junior agent offering their own words of welcome and relief.

Just then, a new figure appeared in the doorway, her expression a mix of concern and relief. Anna had stepped into the room, her eyes searching Callen's face for any sign of injury. Without a word, she crossed the room and pulled him into a tight embrace, her relief evident in the way she held him close.

He returned the embrace, feeling a rush of emotion at seeing his wife safe and sound. "Anna," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

His wife pulled back slightly, cupping his face in her hands as she eyed him. "I was so worried about you, Grisha. I'm so glad you're okay."

He gave a small nod. "I'm okay, Honey. Thanks for being here."

As they held each other close, Callen felt a sense of peace settle over him, knowing he was surrounded by people who cared about him deeply.

After a few moments, the director cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand. "While I'm relieved to see you're safe, Agent Callen, Ms. Lange and I do need to debrief you on recent events. After which, I insist that you receive medical attention."

He nodded mechanically, his movements stiff and robotic as he pulled away from Anna to join both Hetty and Director Vance up on the second floor for his official debriefing. It was standard operating procedure, so he had expected as much.

Hetty indicated the small lounge or interview area rather than the interrogation room, so Callen sat down on the couch with a sigh.

Hetty and Director Vance then sat across from him, their expressions a subtle mixture of concern and professionalism.

Hetty's voice broke the silence. "Agent Callen, we need to gather as much information as possible about your time in captivity. Every detail could be crucial in our efforts to track down those responsible."

Nodding, Callen took a deep breath, preparing himself to relive the events once more. He recounted the ambush, the interrogation, and his daring escape, leaving no detail unmentioned. As he spoke, Hetty and Director Vance listened intently, occasionally interjecting with questions to clarify certain points.

He nodded, his gaze steady as he began to recount everything that happened. "I was out for a morning run before work on Monday. I started to feel as though I was being watched. I turned onto Clubhouse Ave, and that's when I realized I was being boxed in. There was three of them. We fought, but they overpowered me. Drugged me."

Director Vance leaned forward, his expression intent. "And what happened next? Did they say anything? Give any indication of their plan?"

"I passed out," he said flatly. "Then I remember waking up in some sort of warehouse. They kept asking me about Operation Blizzard, a DOD think-tank that I was involved in several years back."

Director Vance nodded. "Blizzard… It outlines the United States' strategic response to a terrorist threat on a high-value target in Japan or East Asia."

"That's the one," he confirmed.

Hetty scribbled notes furiously as Callen spoke, her expression thoughtful. "And during your captivity, did they reveal anything else?"

He shook his head. "No, they didn't say much. But it didn't take long to figure out that they were here on MSS business. And very well trained in enhanced interrogation."

"Your captors were Chinese?" Hetty reiterated.

"Yes," he confirmed matter-of-factly. "I met like four of them. Killed one on the way out. A knife. I know that others were going in and out of the building too."

The director's expression darkened at the mention of the MSS cell's size. "That's highly concerning. And not just for the fact that the NSA, FBI, DIA, and Homeland all missed a cell here either. And that's unsettling enough."

His adoptive mother shook her head. "If they're after Operation Blizzard, it could have serious implications for our national security."

"To put it mildly," he agreed.

Director Vance eyed Callen, his expression grave. "Agent Callen, we need to know how you managed to escape. Can you walk us through that?"

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, the memories of his escape still fresh in his mind. "It was a combination of luck and opportunity," he began, his voice steady. "This young man came in to bring me some rice and water, untied me. I choked him out and fled. Several men tried to follow me. I managed to lose them all and then ducked into an abandoned house off Ord Street for the night. Made my way towards Men's Central Jail this morning because I knew there were payphones in that area."

Hetty nodded, jotting down notes as Callen recounted his escape. "And how did you manage to navigate your way this morning from that house to the rendezvous point with Agent Hanna?"

He leaned back and sighed. "I stuck to the smaller residential streets and avoided the main thoroughfares to minimize the risk of being spotted. I made the call and then hid again until I spotted Agent Hanna's car."

"Smart thinking," the director remarked. As the debriefing concluded, Director Vance then turned to him with a probing look. "Agent Callen, did you end up revealing any sensitive information during your enhanced interrogation?"

Callen's jaw tightened at the question, even though he knew it wasn't personal. They needed to know if he'd been compromised, if he'd compromised anyone else who was connected to Operation Blizzard. "No, sir. I didn't tell them anything."

Director Vance gave him a nod of approval. "Well done, Agent Callen."

After Director Vance's acknowledgment, Hetty interjected with a gentle yet firm tone. "Agent Callen, I've already taken the liberty of arranging counselling sessions for you with Dr. Getz. Given the recent events, it's non-negotiable."

He hesitated for a moment, feeling a mix of reluctance and gratitude towards Hetty's forceful help. He had caught the sessions rather than session, after all. It wasn't just his mandatory Psychological FFDE. "Fine, I'll be there."

"Good," Hetty replied, giving him a small, affectionate smile. "Although, he'll actually be coming to you. It's safer that way."

"And I have a task force on standby," the director explained. "They'll handle the case from this point forward, your team stepping down."

Callen gave a small nod, not expecting much else.

With the debriefing finally concluded, he was escorted to the hospital for a thorough examination. Despite his initial reluctance, he understood the importance of ensuring he was physically sound after his ordeal. As he sat in the examination room, waiting for the doctor, his mind wandered back to the events of the past couple of days, each moment replaying in vivid detail.

Dr. Hodge's voice snapped Callen back to the present as he began his assessment. He asked questions, took photographs, and disinfected and dressed Callen's wounds. He also took some blood and X-rays, wanting to ensure there were no underlying injuries or health concerns. He answered all of the man's inquiries as best as he could, without giving anything sensitive away, eager to get out of there as soon as possible.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the examination was complete, and Callen was released by Dr. Hodge. Numbly, he changed into the clothes that Anna had brought him, his movements mechanical.

Escorted by both Anna and Sam, Callen made his way to Briar Patch - Hetty's beach house. The warm sunlight and gentle breeze provided some small comfort, but Callen couldn't shake the sense of emptiness that gnawed at him from within.

Throwing some coffee on, Callen eventually sank into a chair on the back patio, lost in his own thoughts. He'd been sipping on a cup of coffee, listening to the sound of the waves, when he heard his wife mumbling to someone. Nate then walked out, taking the empty seat right beside him.

"Nate," he greeted with a small smile that felt forced, lacking the warmth and sincerity it would've usually held for the man.

Nate returned the nod, his expression a mix of concern and professionalism. "Callen. How are you holding up?"

Callen took a sip of his coffee, savouring the warmth as it spread through him. "I'm... okay, I guess. Just glad to be out of there."

"It must have been incredibly difficult," Nate remarked, his voice laced with sympathy.

He nodded in agreement, the memories of his captivity still fresh in his mind. "Yeah, it was." He shifted in his seat and eyed the Operational Psychologist. "Honestly, though, Nate… I'm just going through the motions." He shrugged indifferently. "I'm not really feeling much of anything."

"That's your subconscious doing its best to repress it," Nate said. "We know you have a history of repression and traumatic amnesia. Drona, being case in point."

"Yeah," he readily agreed. "I'm pretty good at that." He took another sip of his coffee. "Running, I mean." It's too risky to do otherwise; It hurts too much.

Nate regarded him thoughtfully. "Do you remember how you told me you didn't want to live like that anymore?"

He nodded, remembering when he'd said that during one of their counselling after the whole Drona Project mess came out. "Yes."

"Then you're gonna have to let yourself feel," Nate said. "Even if it's painful." He made a small gesture towards the kitchen where Anna was. "Especially if you want to be the husband and father I know you want to be." Nate then offered him a reassuring smile, his eyes filled with empathy. "It's okay to feel, Callen. It's part of being human. And I know you have the strength to face what happened to you."

A flicker of determination sparked in Callen's eyes and nodded. "Okay. So, where do we begin?"

Nate's face lit up with pride before sobering. "How about we start from the beginning?" the psychologist replied. "Tell me about Monday."

With a deep breath, Callen put his coffee cup down and began. I need to do this.

Chapter 88: The Restless Road Back

Three weeks had come and gone since Callen's escape from the MSS cell. After giving a statement to the NCIS-FBI task force, Callen was asked to participate in a live lineup to give eyewitness IDs. Four suspected MSS agents had been arrested, three of whom had abducted Callen. The fourth man, Callen didn't recognize. After that, he and Anna decided to take a relaxing trip down to Laguna Beach, soaking up the sun and sand for a week. But once they returned to Los Angeles, reality set back in for the couple.

While Anna dove back into her work routine, Callen found himself twiddling his thumbs at home. However, he did get to spend a little time with Kamran and his foster brother Ray, which had been nice. He also got a lot of Kalderash Romani study in. The past week felt like an eternity though as Callen craved the structure and purpose his job provided.

Cooped up in the Venice home, Callen couldn't quite seem to shake the feeling of restlessness. There was a reason that Callen had spent years as a self-admitted workaholic. He really didn't do well with a lot of time to sit around and think. Especially after the intense therapy session with Nate, two days after their return to the City of Angels.

Nate had pushed him to go into detail about the exact interrogation methods used on him, given that it would be expected once the case went to trial.

He briefly thought back to the words he'd spoken to Pembrook the last time he and his former head teacher had crossed paths.

Callen swallowed hard, his voice quivering slightly. "Understand, it has taken me years to trust any relationship. I have gone from jobs at DEA, CIA, FBI, NCIS, all to distract me from... having to face what you did." Callen fought to maintain at least some of his composure, not wanting to be too vulnerable in front of his former head teacher. "You broke in me the most elemental aspect of being human."

He and Nate had discussed his long-standing tendency to run, though. Several times over the years, in fact. And Callen had consistently been trying to do better, but it still wasn't something that came naturally to him.

Anna had left for work already, leaving him alone in their Venice home. After a quick shower, Callen dressed in a casual ensemble: blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt, as well as a grey and blue sweater. Callen touched up his crew cut, wanting to tidy up, before pouring himself another cup of coffee and sitting in the window nook with a book.

Shortly after 1000, Callen grabbed his SIG, NCIS shield, wallet and keys, their familiar weight grounding him as he got ready to head out the door. With a determined stride, he then locked the door behind him, ready for his appointment.

The drive to NCISRA Los Angeles took longer than expected due to the morning traffic, but he arrived just in time. Parking his car, he took a moment to gather his thoughts before heading inside, not exactly looking forward to it.

As Callen made his way through the bustling NCIS headquarters, he couldn't help but feel a sense of ease from the flurry of activity around him. It had been a while since he last roamed these halls, his duties at OSP often keeping him away from the main office barring cases intersecting.

With any luck, he'd be able to convince Nate to let him go back to work.

Just in the nick of time, Callen finally came to a stop in front of a familiar door labelled 'Dr. Nate Getz.' He noted the door was slightly ajar, so he took a deep breath to steady his nerves somewhat and walked in.

Nate, pouring himself a hot brew at the small coffee bar, turned around and gave him a warm smile. "Callen, good to see you." Nate then gestured for Callen to take a seat on the light grey couch a few feet away.

Returning the Operational Psychologist's smile with a small nod, he sat down, watching as Nate took the seat directly across from him. Nate then began the session, taking the lead. "So, Callen, I understand you wanted to discuss returning to work."

"Yeah," he confirmed. "It's time."

Nate leaned forward slightly in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "I hear you, Callen. But I also want to make sure you're ready. Returning to the field after what you experienced can be overwhelming. And you do have a history of using the job to not deal with things."

Callen sighed, running a hand through his short hair as he considered Nate's words. "I know. But I also can't just sit around. I need to take action, and for me, that means getting back to work."

Nate nodded. "I know, believe me. I won't keep you out of the field unless it's necessary." The Operational Psychologist sat up a bit straighter. "So, how have you been doing since we saw each other last? Aches? Pains? Insomnia?" Callen arched an eyebrow at the latter. "More than usual, I mean."

Callen shook his head. "Honestly, not really. Sleeping's never been my strong suit, as you know, but I've been managing alright in that department." Callen paused, considering his words carefully before continuing. "And Anna's been a big help."

Nate gave him an encouraging smile. "That's good to hear, Callen." Nate's expression became inquisitive. So, how've you been handling everything?"

He sighed. "Way too much downtime. I feel like I'm stuck in this loop. I need to move forward and get back to some sense of normalcy."

Nate nodded, understanding the struggle. "Like I said before, I hear you. Routine can be helpful. With that being said, when we discussed your interrogations you mentioned leaning heavily on your Drona training to survive It. How are you handling that now?"

Callen dipped his head slightly. "Yeah. Shutting down, compartmentalizing... it was the only way to get through the worst of it. Though the drugs made that a little harder."

"A little bit like trying to find solid ground in quicksand," the other man remarked with a small nod. Nate then leaned forward, his tone empathetic. "You like being in control, so how do you feel about the loss of control from the drugs?"

"It was frustrating," Callen admitted. "I was worried about accidentally slipping up, wording something wrong." He sat up a bit straighter. "Threw all my energy into minding my words." He tilted his head slightly and quirked an eyebrow. "And trying not to lose my lunch."

Nate shot him an amused look. "With that last one, they would've deserved it."

He chuckled softly. "Yep. In hindsight, that would've been funny. If gross."

"Yeah." Nate's expression turned more serious. "So, what exactly has you climbing the walls? What goes through your mind?"

He shifted in his seat, his gaze drifting to the window as he considered the Operational Psychologist's question. "I keep replaying the abduction in my mind, wondering what else I could've done. What I missed."

"Anything else?" Nate asked without missing a beat.

"Wondering how they connected me to Blizzard," Callen admitted. "Wondering where I slipped up back then. And right before the kidnapping."

"It sounds like your confidence took a bit of a hit," Nate pointed out. "Any doubts you might have about your situational awareness can affect your decision-making."

"I never said I was having doubts," he countered.

Nate raised an eyebrow, recognizing the defensiveness in Callen's tone. "I didn't say that you are having doubts, Callen. You're the one who said you've been questioning yourself somewhat." Nate leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Callen," he began, his tone measured, "it's important to acknowledge those doubts and fears, to confront them head-on rather than push them aside. If you need more time -"

He locked eyes with the other man. "Nate, I understand your concerns," he began, his voice steady, "but being back in the field, doing what I do best... it's where I belong." He leaned forward, his expression determined. "This isn't me running away, man. I'm not trying to figure out if this job still makes sense for me. I know it does. Just like I knew it did after I got shot in Venice or blown up outside of Los Mochis. This job… it's not just what I do, it's who I am. And there's no way I'm letting what happened take that."

Nate regarded him thoughtfully, hearing the conviction in his words. After a moment, the man nodded slowly. "Alright, Callen, I'll sign off on your return to duty." Nate swiftly held up a finger. "On one condition."

Callen raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, waiting for the other man to continue.

"You agree to ongoing check-ins with me," Nate said firmly. "I wanna make sure you're not just physically ready for this, but emotionally and mentally as well."

Callen nodded, knowing it was as good a deal as he was likely going to get. "Fine," he agreed without much hesitation. After all, Nate was honestly just trying to help, even if he wasn't a fan of the methods. "Just let me know when and where."

"Then it's settled," Nate stated. "I'll send in your FFDE right away and I wanna touch base sometime tomorrow afternoon. Say, four o'clock?"

He gave a small dip of the head. "Sure."

With that agreement in place, he felt a large weight lifted off his shoulders. He hadn't been sure which way the meeting was going to go. "Thanks." He stood up, offering the Operational Psychologist his hand.

Nate reached out and shook his hand firmly, smiling warmly. "You're the one doing the work." The man's expression then shifted slightly. "Give the team my regards when you see them."

"Will do," he readily agreed with a small nod. He then turned and headed out of Nate's office, feeling a renewed sense of determination coursing through him. As he made his way back through the bustling building, he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement at the thought of rejoining his team for the first time in weeks.

As he stepped out of the building, he pulled out his phone and dialled Anna's number. After a couple rings, she answered. "Hey, Grisha, how did it go?" Anna's voice sounded concerned yet hopeful.

"It went well," he replied, the relief evident in his tone. He had half-expected his psychologist to say no. "Nate's officially signed off on my return to duty."

"That's great," Anna replied, knowing how badly Callen had wanted that. "How are you feeling about getting back in the field?"

"Thrilled," he readily admitted. "I need to be back out doing something, you know?"

"Yeah, I do," his wife replied, her voice softening with understanding. "Just promise me that you'll watch yourself, alright?"

"I always do, Honey,” he quickly assured her. "Gotta go, but I'll call you later."

"You better," she quipped with a much lighter tone.

After saying their goodbyes, he unceremoniously shoved his cell phone into the centre console and started the drive to the Office of Special Projects. It was time to get back to doing what he did best: protecting and serving alongside his team.

Chapter 89: Resuming Duty

Callen parked his vehicle down in the motor pool across the concrete floor. The familiar sounds of the garage echoed around him as he stepped out. He took a short moment to gather his thoughts slightly before heading towards the elevator. The ride upstairs was a mixture of anticipation and nostalgia. It felt a lot like coming home after a long trip.

As he finally stepped into the Office of Special Projects office, the hum of activity instantly enveloped him. He made his way through the corridors, passing by familiar faces who greeted Callen with nods and smiles. It felt good to be back.

Walking into the bullpen, Callen almost collided with his adoptive mother, who seemed to materialize out of thin air. Hetty's sharp eyes quickly locked onto him, and a small, approving smile played on her lips. "Shavéya," Hetty greeted warmly in Kalderash Romani. "Tu izgledis but mai feder." (Son. You're looking a far sight better.)

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Nayis túke, dále.” He felt a swell of pride and comfort in being able to respond in Romani. Relearning his birthmother Clara's first language as an adult was a little challenging, but he was definitely making progress and felt good about that. Did I really look that bad after my escape? I guess it isn't really all that surprising, though. It hadn't exactly been a five-star experience. "Hakyarav lasho. O vazduxo playako azhutas man.” (Thank you, Mom! I feel good. The beach air did me some good.)

His adoptive mother gave Callen a small nod, smiling affectionately. "Thai sim but loshali te dihkav kodo.” (And I'm quite glad to see that.)

Callen gave a small hum. "Sar san?" he asked with a slight tilt of the head. “Ashundem te sas tut ekh vizitori araki.” Apparently, Rear Admiral A.J. Chegwidden had decided to fly down from Washington for a bit of an impromptu drop-in. (How are you? I heard you had a visitor yesterday.)

Hetty gave a small nod. "Va, me kerdem," she happily confirmed. "E vizita sas shukar, nayis túke." She then held up a piece of paper, her expression more serious as she switched to English. "I just received your FFDE from Nate. While he has cleared you for duty, I still wish to hear it from you myself." (I did indeed. The visit was lovely, thank you for asking.)

"I'm ready," he assured the petite woman. "I need to be back out there. With my team."

She studied him for a second before nodding. "Very well then." Hetty then gestured for him to follow her towards her office. As the pair walked, she started to give him a bit of a sit-rep. "We have a situation brewing, as it just so happens. A new militia calling itself the American Guardianship League has been trying to make a name for itself." Hetty then handed him the small file that was on the top of her desk.

Callen's expression sobered. He then opened the folder, skimming through the limited photographs, intelligence reports, as well as police reports that the agency had on file. "What's their play here?" he questioned.

"Unclear at the moment," Hetty said, her expression grave. "But their rhetoric has been growing increasingly violent as of late."

Callen arched a brow. "I'll say. They committed armed robbery this morning." Apparently, two Militia members had robbed a truck carrying a shipment of weapons on its way to a well-known Culver City armoury at gunpoint early that morning. The truck driver had been shot in the side during the theft and was summarily rushed to Los Angeles General Medical Centre.

"Ms. Blye is naturally working up in Ops," Hetty stated, "and your partner and Mr. Deeks are on their way back from the hospital." She tilted her head. "Mr. Rountree and Ms. Namazi are meeting with FBI Agent Rand at the Boatshed to see if she can shed some more light on this group." Her expression shifted a smidge. "I don't have to tell you that we might have to send someone in?"

He shook his head. "No, you don't." You also don't need to tell me that neither Sam nor Rountree are likely to be accepted. Most of these militias are incredibly racist. So, it will have to be me or Deeks who goes under.

She dipped her head slightly. "Good. Now, run along." Sam and Deeks had just walked through the main doors according to the security footage that was still playing on Hetty's work computer. "Go see your team."

He rolled his eyes in mild amusement. Giving the petite Operations Manager a warm smile, he turned and made his way to the bullpen. Walking into the familiar bullpen, Callen felt a hint of apprehension. He quickly brushed that aside though and walked over to the small coffee bar to pour himself a cup.

"Hey, man!" Deeks said as the pair finally made their way around the corner.

"Hey, G," Sam greeted, a playful look on his partner's face. "I was kinda hoping you'd decided to retire. Go enjoy that private island."

He put the coffee pot back on the burner. "I'm afraid you're not that lucky," he quipped with a wry smile. "And I really don't think my 401K is going to pay for a private island and my wife and unborn child." Picking up his mug, he walked over to his desk.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, you're probably right about that." His partner shot him a teasing look. "Plus, Anna might have a thing or two to say about that as well."

"Oh, for sure!" Deeks chimed in. "That's a given."

"Definitely." His partner clasped his shoulder, his expression turning more serious. "But seriously, it's good to have you back, G."

"Good to be back," he said, taking a seat on his desk. "So, Hetty briefed me but were you guys able to get anything from the hospital?"

Deeks sat on his own desk, his expression thoughtful. "Well, the driver, he's in pretty bad shape," the blond said. "But he managed to give us a description of the two guys who attacked him. Big, burly, erratic types."

"Kensi and Fatima the robbers as David Mason and Mark Ferguson," Sam added while moving to pour himself a cup of coffee. "Both of them have a long history of public disturbances and firearms offences. I'm guessing they're just the muscle."

Callen's brows furrowed as he processed the new information. He had to agree with Sam's assessment. "Alright, let's cross-reference their known associates. See if we can follow it back to the militia's leader or other potential members."

Just then, Sam's cell phone rang. Not missing a beat, the former SEAL put the call on speaker phone and put it down on Callen's desk so that all three of them could hear it. The former SEAL then got straight down to business. "Hey, Fatima, Rountree. Callen's here. Was Lisa able to give you anything helpful?"

"No," Rountree replied. "They haven't even been able to pin down a leader."

"According to Agent Rand," Fatima chimed in, "the group has been keeping a pretty low profile until recently. They have a handful of suspected members, but that's about it."

"Because that's shocking," Deeks drawled with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Callen sighed. "Yeah. Alright, have Agent Rand send us a copy of that list. We do have one but the FBI's will probably be the most up-to-date."

"Copy that," Fatima said. "We'll be back at the office soon. See you then."

With the phone call ending, the three of them sat down at their desks, Callen quickly firing off a short IntelliChat message to Kensi to let her know that they were going to be helping her with all the cross-referencing and back-tracing. If they could get this done without having to infiltrate, that would be ideal. He wasn't holding his breath for that, though. Militias were notoriously paranoid and hard to pin down.

As they all delved into the task at hand, the atmosphere in the bullpen became more focused, the clacking of keyboards and occasional murmurs of conversation filling the space. Callen's mind wandered a bit, but he did his best to focus on the job in front of him and find some sort of actionable lead. He knew that Sam was shooting him assessing looks when the other man thought he wasn't paying attention, though.

As the afternoon continued flying by, it seemed like they were at a bit of a dead end. The digital forensics they were sifting through wasn't giving the team much to go on aside from suggesting expected yet unfortunate similarities between the AGL and the likes of the long-disbanded Gun Barrel Party and its ideology.

'Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.' Those words said by Mao Zedong so long ago had inspired more violence than even the former CCP leader could've possibly ever imagined.

By 1600, however, Rountree got the group's attention. "Hey guys, I think I might have found something," the junior agent announced, getting up and walking briskly over to the large plasma screen. "I've been going over bank statements off that list of suspected AGL members and this one place keeps popping up." The young man pointed deliberately at the screen. "Malone's Taphouse."

His partner eyed the receipt. "That's just off 6th Street."

"Well, everybody's got their spot," Deeks quipped.

Rountree let out a soft chuckle. "Ain't that the truth."

"They could be using the bar as a front," he mused aloud. "We should run surveillance on the bar. See who shows up with our suspects." They could slip a couple of bugs in the pub and park the surveillance van out on the street until after closing.

"It's worth a shot," his partner readily agreed. "Deeks, you and Rountree go and get the van ready. G and I'll take the first shift."

“I’ll tell Kensi to get on that court order,” he remarked, hoping it wouldn’t take too long for them to get the necessary authorization. 

As they all dispersed to prepare for the surveillance op, Callen caught Hetty's eye from over in her office. She gave him an assessing look and he smiled. Callen then made his way towards Hetty's office, briefing her, before joining his partner outside.

With any luck, the stakeout would pay off and they would be one step closer to ending this thing before anybody got hurt.

Chapter 90: Of Partners and Stakeouts

Their stakeout on Malone's Taphouse was underway, with Callen and Sam inside the fake food truck having take the first shift. Kensi had quickly gotten them the necessary electronic surveillance authorization and Sam had discreetly wired the place.

He adjusted his headset, listening intently as their audio feed crackled to life. The low murmur of conversations and clinking glasses filled his ears. "Got it," he said, his eyes quickly moving to the monitors.

Sam sat down in the seat beside him, his own eyes now glued to the screen. "And now we wait and watch."

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Wait and watch."

The long-time partners then fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds being the soft hum of the equipment and the occasional crackle of static.

As the minutes ticked by, Callen's mind wandered back to his conversation with Hetty. He knew his adoptive mother was worried about him, and he appreciated her concern. But he also knew that being back in the field was exactly what he needed.

There was a bit of bitter irony in the fact that Hetty was concerned about his reaction to being tortured, given the fact that she'd been the one to recruit him into a C.I.A. training program that did that very thing to him as a child. Not that she had been aware of the full scope of the program when she had enrolled him. Callen was extremely grateful that she'd intervened once she knew about the hell he'd been going through although he did wish she'd put the pieces together sooner. And been a bit more forthcoming.

Regardless, the Drona Project, with the help of the foster system, had drilled survival into him. He had survived worse odds - being shot five times in one sitting, as an example. He was fine and not exactly comfortable with being smothered; even though Hetty had always had a tendency to do just that when he was seriously sick or injured. Like when he had come down with meningitis not long after she'd taken him in.

Of course, everybody was aware of that and Hetty and the others had, thankfully, been doing their best to give him enough room to breathe while still being supportive since his imprisonment and escape.

He subtly swallowed the lump in his throat as images of being tied up and electrocuted and waterboarded at that abandoned warehouse not too long ago flickered across his eyes. It hadn't been fun but he'd survived. Just like he'd always done.

He was pulled from his musings by an assessing look from Sam. "You're drifting, G," his partner remarked.

Callen tilted his head a tad and smirked at his partner, deciding to redirect the conversation from his extensive history with enhanced interrogation. "Oh, just thinking about that time in Chișinău when you tried to outdrink that Ukrainian airman and ended up -"

Sam rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. "Look, don't start with me. That was a simple misunderstanding." The former Navy SEAL pointed at Callen accusingly, sporting his own cheeky grin. "How about that little stunt of yours in Okinawa, Julio?"

He arched a brow. "Hey, I nailed that high note!" he retorted in mock offence. "Much better than your horrible Mick Jagger impersonation."

Their shared laughter filled the cramped space of the surveillance truck, easing some of the earlier tension. Feeling a lot more at ease now, Callen threw his focus back fully onto their current case. A buddy of his, Tom Rhee, who worked for the Secret Service's Counter-Assault Team ended up texting him, though, extending a dinner invitation to him and Anna for that Friday.

Of course, Callen had readily accepted the invite; as long as work allowed. You never really knew with their work schedules which is why it had been a couple of years since they'd actually hung out and not simply chatted in a parking lot.

The hours dragged on with no real developments. The pub was buzzing with the usual drunken chatter and a steady but not hectic number of customers coming and going. Nothing out of the ordinary caught their attention, though.

However, just as he and Sam getting ready to switch shifts with Deeks and Rountree, a snippet of conversation caught Callen's ear. He leaned forward slightly, trying to tune out the din of the pub.

A middle-aged man who Callen quickly recognized as Daniel Morrow from their list of suspected AGL members leaned towards a younger man and said in a low voice, "Did you hear about the meeting tomorrow?"

The younger man shook his head in the negative. "No. Why? what's going on?"

The older man took a swig of his beer and grinned. "Oh, nothing. The boss just wants to discuss planning that party coming up."

It was just a passing exchange, seemingly innocent enough, but the words made the hairs on the back of Callen's neck stand up. At the very least, it lent credence to the militia connection for both men. And what party? That's not good.

"About damn time!" the younger man quipped with a small laugh. He then gestured to the older man's now empty beer. "Another round on me?"

Morrow gave a small nod. "I won't say no to that."

Sam met Callen's gaze, silently acknowledging what they had just heard. They didn't have enough to act on yet, but at least they now knew for sure that they were on the right track. The downside was that it meant the group was likely planning an attack.

A couple minutes after midnight, Deeks and Rountree discretely entered the surveillance van, several coffees in hand and looking eager to start their shift.

"Hey, boys!" Deeks greeted, handing Callen one of the coffees. "We brought you some liquid gold. Figured you could use it."

Callen accepted the cup of joe with a grateful nod. "Thanks, man." He took a sip. "We overheard something interesting just before you two got here."

Rountree tilted his head and eyed him curiously. "Oh yeah? What did you guys get?"

Sam took a sip of his own coffee, leaned against the wall, and began briefing the pair on the tiny bit of intel that they'd gained. He and Sam then headed to their respective homes for some rest and plans to carpool to work for their next shift.

Shortly after 0800 that morning, the whole team was gathering up in the Operations Centre for an emergency briefing. Hetty stood at the front of the room, her gaze commanding the attention of the entire team as they gathered around.

"Good morning, everyone," Hetty said, her voice steady and authoritative. "Thank you for coming in so quickly. I'm afraid there's been a bit of a development." Fatima pulled a report from LAPD up the big screen. "Two suspected members of AGL, Ferguson and Thompson, were caught on surveillance footage last night."

Fatima quickly pulled up the footage in question. "They broke into a hardware store on Olympic Boulevard and stole several items," the junior agent said.

"These items may seem innocuous on their own," Hetty said, "but when put together, they paint a very different and unpleasant picture."

Murmurs of concern rippled through the room as the team exchanged worried glances.

His body tensed, his shoulders squared, and his expression turned grim. Those items? Definitely components for chemical explosives. That less-than-stellar news definitely added a sense of urgency to their investigation, putting them on the clock. "They're building a chemical bomb."

"That's just great," Deeks remarked sarcastically.

"Not the word I'd use for it," Rountree remarked.

Hetty's gaze then turned to Callen, her expression serious. "Mr. Callen, I need you to go undercover and infiltrate AGL. We need to gather as much information as possible and stop them before they use that bomb. We can't afford to waste any time."

Callen nodded, his resolve firm. "I know." He then turned to Kensi. "I should be able to reactivate Steven Walinski without an issue." It had been a while since that alias was used and the only outsider who knew his undercover status had been transferred out of the county and segregated, still firmly behind bars. That was the only reason Hetty hadn't insisted that the alias be declared N.L.V.

"Okay," Kensi said without missing a beat. "I'll make sure it's updated and good to go. Quicker than creating one from scratch."

"Definitely," Fatima agreed. "I'll give you a hand."

"That'd be great," Kensi said, shooting the junior agent an appreciate look.

"Good," Hetty stated, "and look into potential targets once that's done." She turned to Sam. "Now, Mr. Hanna, you'll provide overwatch." She turned to Deeks and Rountree, her expression unchanged. "Messrs. Deeks and Rountree, you two will be focusing on the robbery side of things. LAPD Detective Dan Evans is on his way to the Boatshed to talk to the pair of you as we speak."

"Got it," Deeks replied with a small nod.

Rountree gently nudged Deeks with his elbow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Looks like we're in for some fun, huh?"

Deeks chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Fun? More like a wild goose chase. But hey, it totally beats sitting behind a desk all day."

With their assignments clear and the urgency of the situation weighing heavily on their minds, the team dispersed to carry out their respective assignments. They were aware they had absolutely no margin of error here and needed to move quickly.

He headed straight down to the wardrobe department, his mind already shifting gears into his undercover persona as Steven Walinski. He exchanged small nods with a few coworkers as he walked by them, his expression focused and determined.

With a practiced eye, Callen scanned the racks until he found an outfit that would work with his undercover alias. Callen quickly changed into a plain, grey t-shirt, a red, plaid over-shirt and a pair of distressed jeans, the outfit change helping him to mentally slip into the undercover persona.

A short while later, Kensi brought Callen his updated undercover and filled him in on how she'd filled in the gaps of the last several years. Satisfied that everything was in order, he tucked the undercover wallet into the pocket on the right side of his pants. He then took a deliberate breath, mentally preparing himself for the mission ahead. He had a mixture of anticipation and apprehension churning in his gut. Going back out in the field felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Callen's lips as he recognized the familiar footsteps approaching from behind. "Confirmed your backstopping, Mr. Callen?"

"Yep," he affirmed, turning to face the petite Operations Manager. "Got outta jail two months ago after doing extra time for that Certified National Bank robbery and I've been scraping by with odd jobs ever since."

"That'll do," Hetty said with a small nod. She held out a button camera and earwig for him to take. "Go with God, Mr. Callen and stay sharp."

"I always do," he assured her, shooting Hetty a lopsided grin. "And I have a guardian angel who's tiny but very tough." With that, he took the offered bugs from her and started to place them on his person.

Hetty's lips began curling upwards despite herself. "Don't be cheeky now." Her smile grew subtly wider at the remark. Callen knew her better than most, however, so it was as clear as day to him. After all, she'd been half his world for decades. "But let's hope this guardian angel of yours can keep up with your antics, hmmm."

He chuckled. "She's had decades of practice, I'm not worried." With that, Callen turned and headed to the bullpen to grab one last thing before he left.

The life of a covert operative always kept you on your toes, that was for certain.

Chapter 91: Taproom Convictions

The neon glow of Malone's Taphouse cast shifting shadows across Callen's face as he leaned against the bar, nursing a half-empty beer. The chatter of patrons ebbed and flowed around him, a mix of laughter, heated debates, and the clinking of glasses. It was the kind of place where opinions flowed as freely as the drinks.

Callen scanned the room discreetly, his eyes assessing the clientele. He knew he had to stay sharp, not just for himself but for his team and family.

In the corner nearest him, a small group of men piqued his interest. They spoke in low tones, occasionally gesturing towards news articles displayed on one of their smartphone screens. One of them, a burly man with a close-cropped beard and a large tattoo peeking from under his sleeve, caught Callen's attention. He recognized the burly man, Jacob Slade, from an LAPD mugshot photo.

As Callen watched, the man's cell phone buzzed, and he glanced down briefly before muttering something cliché about "the government's overreach" and "the Blacks." The others nodded in agreement, their expressions hardened in a shared defiance against the perceived injustice. They were definitely AGL members.

Deciding to make his move, Callen turned towards them with a slight smirk, injecting just the right amount of skepticism into his voice. He then addressed the man he had recognized earlier. "So, did you guys hear about the new gun law?" he asked, keeping his tone casual yet mildly curious.

The men glanced at each other, all their expressions slightly guarded but intrigued by the interruption. Slade nodded cautiously. "Yeah," the burly man replied gruffly, giving him an assessing look. "Just another way for them to tighten the screws."

He shrugged nonchalantly, leaning against the bar to lend credence to the appearance of casually joining the group's conversation. "Ten years without a firearm after a conviction," he stated, keeping his tone measured. "It's overkill, seriously."

A murmur of agreement rippled throughout the group, and Slade nodded thoughtfully. "Damn straight." He gave Callen another once over. "You new around here?"

"Just got back," he said without elaboration. "Name's Steven Walinski."

Slade nodded, his expression shifting to a slightly more welcoming demeanour. "Jake Slade. And you're in the right place if you're concerned about these things," he stated, gesturing towards the group as if inviting Callen to join them. "We were just discussing how these laws are another way to control us, strip away our rights."

He nodded, slipping into the empty seat at the table. "Absolutely," he agreed, his voice carrying a hint of agreement mixed with curiosity. "It's like they keep finding new ways to restrict what we can do."

One of the other men, a younger guy with a military crewcut, chimed in. "Exactly," he said fervently. "And it's not just about guns. It's about freedoms in general."

Callen nodded again, sensing an opportunity to delve deeper. "Seems like it's getting harder to exercise our rights without someone trying to clamp down," he remarked, his tone casual but empathetic.

Slade nodded in agreement, his eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing Callen's stance. "You seem to know what you're talking about," he remarked, his voice carrying a note of approval. "What's your take?"

Callen deliberately took a sip of his beer, carefully choosing his words to align with the group's sentiments. A half-smile then played on his lips. "Let's just say I've seen both sides of the fence," he replied. "And I know how to stand my ground."

Slade leaned back, intrigued by Callen's response. The rest of the group watched with varying degrees of interest, no doubt sizing him up. One of them, a wiry man with a baseball cap, spoke up next. "What did you do time for?"

He met the wiry man's gaze evenly. "Bank robbery," he said bluntly, his tone carrying a hint of resignation and a touch of defiance. "I was runnin' with the ASA."

"The Aryan Supreme Alliance?" one of the guys asked.

Callen nodded, gauging the group's reactions carefully. "Yeah," he affirmed, his voice steady. "I ran with them for a while. Before things went south."

The men around the table remained silent, absorbing the intel with varying degrees of apprehension and interest. It was a delicate move, attempting to establish some trust as well as shared ideology. If he didn't land this, he was dead in the water.

One of the other men - who Callen had heard referred to as Justin - suddenly pulled out his smartphone. His fingers moved swiftly over the screen, tapping in a search query. "Steven Walinski robbery," the guy muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the results.

Callen kept his expression neutral, inwardly steeling himself for whatever might come next. His cover should be solid, but there was always a chance for things to go south. If it was going to go sideways, now would probably be the time.

After a tense moment, the man looked up from his phone, his expression unreadable. Justin turned the screen towards Slade, who leaned in to inspect whatever it was. The others at the table craned their necks to see.

Slade studied the screen intently, then glanced up at Callen. "Well, I'll be damned," he murmured, his voice carrying a mix of surprise and light admiration.

The tension in the air eased slightly as Slade passed the phone around the table. The others took turns viewing the screen, nodding or muttering under their breaths as they absorbed the confirmation of Callen's past.

Finally, Slade handed the cell phone back to Justin, who swiftly pocketed it with a nod of satisfaction. "Looks like you're the real deal, Walinski."

"You've clearly seen some shit," the younger man sporting the military crewcut stated. "I'm impressed with your conviction."

Callen nodded curtly. "If you wanna get Uncle Sam's attention, you've gotta give him a taste of his own medicine," he remarked pointedly.

The wiry man with the baseball cap spoke up next, offering a handshake. "I'm Blaise," he said shortly, his eyes assessing but not hostile.

He shook Blaise's hand. "Good to meet you."

The younger man with the crewcut held out a hand to Callen next. "Name's Kyle," he introduced himself, his handshake firm and direct.

"Steven," he replied with a nod, acknowledging the kid.

With a small smile, the man who asked him about the ASA introduced himself as Todd. Lastly, the guy who had googled his alias during their conversation looked Callen in the eye, gave him a small nod, and introduced himself as Justin.

"Steven," he repeated, nodding back at the guy. He took a note of each person's name and demeanour and filled it away for later use.

As their discussion continued, the group covered a wide range of topics: immigration, education, recent news, and local events. He listened intently, his mind occasionally drifting to darker thoughts - flashbacks to his captivity that threatened to intrude on the present moment. He'd learned quite a few grounding techniques over the years, though and his cover wasn't any the worse for it. He contributed just enough to the conversation to blend in while observing the dynamics within the group.

After almost three hours had gone by, Slade clasped Callen on the shoulder, his tone gruff but welcoming. "You know, we're meeting up tomorrow with some other people who share your views. At an abandoned office building just off Franklin. I'd like you to join us, and see what we're all about."

Callen felt a surge of cautious satisfaction as he registered the invite. This had gone as well as he could've hoped for. It was a crucial opportunity for him to gather more intel on the American Guardianship League and disrupt the group's activities from within. "I appreciate the invite," he said with a small smile. "When and where?"

Slade nodded, satisfied with Callen's response. "Good. We start around noon. Look for the blue van parked near the building," the man instructed.

He dipped his head slightly. "Got it. I'll be there."

As the group began to head out, exchanging nods and brief farewells, Callen opted to stay behind for a moment longer. Callen nursed the last of his beer, the faint aroma of hops mingling with the chatter of the few remaining patrons around him. Leaning against the table, Callen let the gravity of the situation fully sink in, trying to not think about all of the ways that the op could go wrong. Once the drink was finished, he went up to the bar and closed out his tab.

With a final glance around the bar to ensure no one was watching him too closely, he slipped out into the dark of the night. His mind was already racing ahead, trying to strategize and anticipate what to expect at the meeting the following day.

Sam was parked about two blocks away from the location, so Callen carefully made his way there and hopped into the surveillance van.

"Looks like you're their first-round draft pick, G!" his partner quipped as he started the engine. "Not bad for a bit of a rush job."

He smirked at his partner's basketball analogy as he settled into the passenger seat of the surveillance van. "Yeah, well, there's one more round to go, Big Guy. Still have to see if I make the starting lineup."

Sam chuckled softly, adjusting the rearview mirror before pulling away from the curb. "You always find a way to get into the game, G. What are your initial reads on this group anyway?"

He leaned back in the passenger seat, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "They're definitely deep into their convictions. Anti-government, anti-regulation. They see themselves as fighting for freedom, but it's seriously skewed by their prejudices."

Sam's gaze flickered between the road and the rearview mirror as they drove through the quiet downtown streets. "Sounds like a mix of ideology and personal grievances. You think they're connected to the recent incidents downtown?"

He arched a brow. "I'd wager there's a pretty good chance they're involved."

His partner nodded. "Hopefully, tomorrow's meet will give us a clearer picture."

"If we're lucky," Callen replied, still mentally preparing for the next day's operation. He hoped the debriefing with Hetty didn't take too long, because going home to his wife sounded rather good right about then.

Reaching into the glove compartment, he grabbed his personal cell phone and sent off a quick text to his wife in Russian. Anna was probably fast asleep, given the time, but Callen wanted to send it regardless. 'Привет, милая. У меня встреча, а потом я закончу на сегодня вечером. Увидимся.' (Hey, Honey. I have to debrief and then I'll be done for the night. See you soon.)

Now to just get that debriefing over and done with so they could finally call it a night.

Chapter 92: A Familiar Language

The following morning, Callen jolted awake, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his chest. The remnants of the nightmare from his recent time in captivity clung to him, but he was far too used to such things at this point. He lay still for a moment, letting the familiarity of the room anchor him. He glanced at Anna who was peacefully asleep beside him and smiled softly.

He carefully slipped out of bed, moving gently so as not to wake her. In the bathroom, he splashed some cold water on his face and eyed his reflection. His eyes were tired but resolute. He changed into his running gear, quickly left a note for his wife and then headed out for a brisk morning run. He only briefly stopped to reply to some random memes that his surrogate nephew Aiden thought he needed to see.

The early morning air was cool and crisp, the sky just beginning to lighten with the promise of a new day. He wordlessly ran through the quiet neighbourhood, letting the rhythmic sound of his feet against the pavement help clear his mind.

His route eventually took him to Anna's preferred coffee shop. Callen pushed open the door, the scent of freshly baked goods and coffee lifting his spirits. As he waited for his breakfast order, Callen overheard a couple that looked about his age speaking in a familiar, melodic tongue. He turned towards them, having recognized the language as a Romani dialect.

The guy was clad in a pair of navy blue slacks, a deep red collared shirt, a navy blue suit jacket, a pair of tan closed shoes, and a black broad-brimmed hat. The man's look was finished off with a gold necklace and a wristwatch.

The woman was dressed in a billowy, tiered, purple and white paisley skirt that reached her ankles, paired with a white and lavender floral top, along with black flats. Her hair was in two braids. She tied it all together with a gold necklace and a pair of hoop earrings. She also had a light purple diklo - or headscarf - neatly tied around her head.

Tentatively, Callen approached them. "Lashi tehára," he began with a small smile. He gestured to one of the nearby coffee machines. "E káfa kathe si but lashi." (Good morning. The coffee here's pretty good.)

The pair looked pleasantly surprised when they realized he'd spoken to them in their preferred language. And for Callen's part, it was cool to have the chance to use it with someone other than his adoptive mother.

"Te aves baxtalo!" the man said warmly, wishing luck in the traditional Romani way. He then glanced at Callen with curiosity. "San rrôm? Katar san?" (Hello! Are you Romani? Where are you from?)

He nodded. "Murri dey sas rrômni thai murro dad sas rúso. Me bardem kathe ande Kalifórniya. Thai tume?" (My mother was Romani and my father was Russian. I grew up here in California. You guys?)

The brunette gestured to the man with her. "Kado si murro rrôm. Ame soldui sam katar o San Fransisko," she replied with a warm smile. She then held out her right hand and introduced herself. "Murro anav si Sabina." (This is my husband. We're both from San Francisco. My name's Sabina.)

Callen shook the offered hand, smiling as he introduced himself. "Bushov Grisha." (I'm Grisha.)

"Bushov Elijah," the other man stated warmly, taking Callen's hand and shaking it firmly. "Me loshav te maladyov tut." (I'm Elijah. It's nice to meet you.)

"Me vi loshalo sim," he said earnestly. The couple was nice enough and Callen was glad to have the chance to actually put what he'd learned to use. "So keren ages? Keren buki?" (The pleasure is mine. What are you two doing today? Working?)

Elijah nodded. "Va,” the man said. “Kinav káfa ekh divánêske kadi tehára. Sim softversko inzeneri." (Yeah. I'm buying coffee for a meeting this morning. I'm a software engineer.)

"Me sim frizerka," Sabina said happily, sounding quite passionate about her trade. "Thai tu?" (I'm a hairdresser. How about you?)

He quickly wracked his brain for a suitable answer. The truth wasn't an option for some very obvious security reasons. I need something that they won't dig too much into, though. And fast. "O, sim bankiri. Si bi-interesantno, núma pokinel le rachuna." Callen tripped a bit over the last word. (Oh, I'm a banker. It's boring, but it pays the bills.)

Elijah chuckled, his chocolate brown eyes crinkling slightly. "O, me hakyarav, frenéya! Pakya man." (Oh, I get it, Buddy! Believe me.)

Sabina tilted her head slightly. "San ansurime?" she asked, gesturing to the ring on his hand. He never wore it into the field, but he did often wear it to work and just left it in his desk drawer for the day. Not unusual for an operative. (You're married?)

"Va," he confirmed with a small smile and tilt of the head. "Kerdam abiav ando mayo.” His grin grew. "Thai murri rrômni si phari amari angluni glátasa." (Yep. We got married back in May. And my wife's pregnant with our first kid.)

Sabina and Elijah’s faces both lit up. “Baxtalimos!" the pair chorused. (Congratulations!)

They talked for a couple of more minutes and then they invited him to go see Lache Cercel and the Roma Swing Ensemble playing Romani Jazz Music at Levitt Pavilion that following Friday. He thanked them for the invitation and collected his order - a couple of bagels and two coffees. One of them, of course, was a decaffeinated one for his wife.

As Callen walked home, he couldn't shake the feeling of connection he'd felt speaking Romani. The interaction had been brief, but it reminded him of his mother, Clara, and why he'd wanted to relearn her language in the first place. He could just barely recall his mother playing the song Gelem, Gelem on vinyl while she cooked.

Grisha, only four years old, abandoned his colouring book at the kitchen table and ran over to where his mother stood, busy placing vegetables into a large pot. The scent of herbs and onions was filling the air.

Her dark hair was tied back in a loose bun, and she was humming softly along with the music playing on their record player over in the corner. It was just them as his father wasn't back from going to pick Amaliya up from primary school yet.

"Dále, shai azhutiv?" the four-year-old boy piped up, his voice small yet hopeful. (Mommy, can I help?)

His mom turned towards him with a warm smile, wiping her hands on her white apron. "Va, shavéya!" she said, gesturing for him to walk over and join her. "Av kathe." (Sure, son! Come here.)

He climbed up onto the small stool eagerly, standing on tiptoe to peer into the large pot that was bubbling on their stove and see what it was. "So si kadi, dále?" he asked. (What is this, Mommy?)

"Ciorbă de Perișoare," his mother replied, switching to Romanian momentarily. The dark-haired woman then easily slipped right back into her native Kalderash Romani. "Tiri mami sikadyas man sar te kerav la." (Romanian Meatball Soup. Your grandma taught me how to make it.)

Grisha nodded and began stirring as his mom started singing along to the song again in truth. "Ooo, Rromale! Ooo, Shavale!" (Oh, Roma! Oh, Romani youth!)

He scarcely remembered his mother - or his sister for that matter - but he cherished the little snippets of memory he did have and clung to them. He wished he had more time with his father, yes, but he'd had none with his mother and Amy. He'd only been four the last time he'd seen them, after all.

As he arrived home, the soft click of the front door closing grabbed his wife's attention and she walked out of their room. "Morning," she said, walking up and kissing him on the cheek. "You were up early."

Callen set the bagels and coffees down on their kitchen table and then gave his wife a cheeky, lopsided grin. "I got us breakfast."

She chuckled. "Perfect, because I'm now very hungry."

They sat down together, enjoying their breakfast and talking about whatever came to their minds. The conversation meandered from getting ready for the baby to Callen's return to work. He even shared the interaction at the coffee shop with his wife whose hazel eyes immediately lit up with interest. She thought it was great that he'd finally had the opportunity to really use the Indo-Aryan language.

After breakfast, Callen took a quick shower and dressed for work. As he finished tying his shoes, he heard the familiar sound of a vehicle car pulling up outside. Sam was right on time. Callen quickly finished grabbing his things and then kissed his wife goodbye.

"See you tonight," he said, privately hoping he didn't have to work overnight.

"Be safe," she said, resting her hand gently on her belly.

"I always am," he assured her, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before heading out. "I love you."

"I love you too," she replied affectionately. "So much."

Callen then stepped outside, closing the front door behind him. Sam greeted him with a nod as he climbed into the car. "Morning, G!"

"Morning," he replied, starting to buckle himself in. "Aiden spam you this morning too?"

Sam chuckled as he pulled out of the driveway. "Yeah, boy's got a knack for finding the weirdest memes at the oddest hours."

"Definitely," Callen agreed with an amused shake of the head. "Kids these days, I just don't understand them." With that, Callen went quiet and listened to the jazz music his partner currently had playing on the radio.

Once they got to OSP, the team had some reports and threat assessments to go over before it was time for Callen to head to his meeting with the AGL at the office building just off Franklin Avenue. His mind raced, his focus split between the present task and the looming undercover assignment.

Unfortunately, the paperwork was also part of the job. And not a part that he had any real interest in.

By noon, Callen found himself parked in the shadow of the derelict office building, its cracked windows staring like empty eyes into the clouded sky. A faint smell of mildew hung in the air, mingling with the distant hum of traffic. The blue van Slade mentioned was parked discreetly nearby. He quickly double-checked his appearance in the car's rearview mirror and tried to mentally make the switch into his undercover persona of Steven Walinski.

Stepping out of the car, Callen approached the building with a blend of confidence and caution. Militias were always tricky business, after all. The air around Callen was thick with anticipation as he entered the building.

Several guys - including Justin, Blaise, Todd, and Kyle from the bar the night before - were gathered around a plastic picnic table littered with what appeared to be a map of downtown Los Angeles, building schematics, and several other scattered documents. The conversation quieted down as Callen walked in, a sea of eyes turning to him with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion.

Slade's gaze met Callen's as he greeted him with a firm nod. "Welcome, Walinski!" the man said with a small smile. "Glad you could make it." Slade then gestured to the man standing beside him. "This is Dan Morrow."

Morrow extended his right hand, his grip firm. "Pleasure to meet you," the man said in a low, gravelly voice that matched his rugged appearance. His eyes were sharp, assessing Callen with just a hint of skepticism.

He shook Morrow’s hand with a firm grip, maintaining his persona. "Likewise," he replied, keeping his tone neutral yet cordial.

Slade motioned for him to follow as they joined the rest of the group. The meeting was now about to start in truth as the majority of people had arrived.

Slade proceeded to introduce him to most of the others, sharing a bit about his alias's Aryan Supreme Alliance and bank robbery history. Slade then gave the floor to another man who appeared to be a leader.

Callen leaned towards Blaise slightly and spoke softly to him. "Who is that?"

"Benjamin Cyrus," the wiry man explained. "He's the head of the chapter. Darren, the guy with him, is his younger brother."

Callen gave a small nod before turning his focus back onto Cyrus. He couldn't afford to miss anything at the moment. Cyrus was a tall man with a commanding presence, his eyes dark and intense. The man scanned the room, his gaze lingering on Callen for a moment before he addressed the group.

"Brothers and sisters," Cyrus began, his voice firm and resonant, "we are at a crucial juncture. The time for action is upon us. Our enemies grow stronger by the day, but we will not falter. We have the strength, the resources, and the will to prevail."

The room was silent, everyone hanging on Cyrus's every word. Callen felt a shiver run down his spine. The man had a way of captivating his audience, and it was easy to see why he had risen to a position of leadership.

"Next week," Cyrus continued, "we’re going to send out a message the regime can't ignore." The man gestured down to the building schematics. "We're going to attack the CIPC's Power up event on Monday."

Callen fought to keep his expression as neutral as possible as the implications hit him. The militia was planning on attacking the California Immigrant Policy Centre's headquarters with a bunch of innocent men, women and children inside.

"Here's the deal," Darren began, his voice steady and measured. "We've been scouting the venue for several weeks now. The Powerup event's our best shot." Darren pointed out two locations on the building schematics. "Security'll be focused on the main and back entrance, but they always overlook this side entrance." The man pointed out the side door in question. "Here."

Cyrus jumped back in. "The event starts at 11:30. We'll all park here, here, and here. The man said, pointing to several locations on the map of Los Angeles. "Then we walk the rest of the way. Once we breach the perimeter, we move swiftly. There's no room for error here."

Todd spoke up first. "We need to make sure we've got a clear exit strategy, especially if things go sideways. We can't afford to get pinned down."

"True," Darren agreed. "And that's why we're going parking where we said." The man pointed out the routes they were supposed to walk in once more. "Each of these is off an alleyway and easily accessible. With easy access to a main road." He pointed to yet another location on the map. "Three blocks south of the venue… if we need to scatter, that's where we regroup."

The group exchanged curt nods and murmurs of approval, many of their expressions etched with a mixture of determination, eagerness, and concern.

Justin leaned forward, his voice gruff but determined. "What about the response time from law enforcement? We need to factor that in."

Cyrus nodded, acknowledging the concern. "Good point. They'll scramble fast, which is why we'll be separating two individuals from the group and holding them hostage." The man casually pointed out a room on the building schematics. "In this room toward the back, with one of ours keeping watch."

"How many security guys are on site?" he asked, trying to gain as much intelligence as he could for his team and seem eager to help. It was a fine line, though. "Any shift changes we should know about?"

Morrow shot him a suspicious look, clearly attempting to get some sort of read on him. Meanwhile, Slade seemed slightly impressed that he even spoke up. I'm not that easy to scare. The language of violence is something I'm far too familiar with.

"Not bad, Walinski!" Cyrus said with a small nod. "Our new friend here asked a pretty good question." He locked eyes with Callen. "No shift changes and there will only be two security personnel on duty."

Callen nodded curtly, processing the new information. "Understood," he replied with a small smirk. "Should be easy enough to handle."

"Exactly," Darren agreed. "We'll have a window of roughly ten minutes before the pigs swarm in. We get in, separate two staff members, and take out the rest."

Cyrus glanced at Callen pointedly. "You're new here, Walinski. Remember, one slip-up and we're all toast. You have a decent track record, though, from what I've heard. Use it. No slip-ups."

He dipped his head slightly. "Yes, sir."

He inwardly debated his next move. He needed to tread carefully, gaining their trust while also gathering enough information to relay back to NCIS. Callen decided to just stay quiet though, not wanting to accidentally overplay his hand. Sometimes less was more and you could learn a lot from simply listening.

About half an hour later, people started to disperse, small groups forming to discuss final preparations and logistics. He lingered briefly, exchanging curt nods with Slade, Morrow, and a couple of others before making his way back to his undercover vehicle that was parked just down the street.

As Callen drove away from the abandoned building, Callen's mind raced. He needed to report to the Boatshed right away with everything he'd learned. For obvious reasons, he was not driving directly back to OSP. The clock was ticking and the team had a lot that they still needed to figure out.

Chapter 93: The Long Game

Callen's hands tightened around the steering wheel as he drove away from the derelict office building. The way that Cyrus spoke and his control over his members was sadly expected but still unsettling.

As he arrived at the Boatshed, he parked and took a moment to get his head together somewhat. The team needed him focused and bringing his A-game; nothing less. That was his job as the unit's head agent.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sterile air of the Boatshed as he entered. Sam, Deeks, and Rountree sat huddled around the couch, their faces etched with lines of worry and anticipation.

His partner immediately looked up as Callen walked in, his expression a mix of concern and determination. "This is gonna get ugly, G."

Callen nodded. "Yeah." He turned to the rest of the team. "They're planning an attack on the CIPC's Power up event on Monday. Benjamin Cyrus - one of the leaders - wants to send a message."

"And a loud one at that," his partner remarked gravely.

"That's a major community event," Rountree stated, his brown eyes widening slightly. "These guys really aren't messing around."

"I know," he agreed, his voice tight. "And they're well-prepared. They've scouted the location, mapped out the entry and exit points, and even planned on taking hostages to delay law enforcement."

Deeks frowned then cracked a grin. "So, what's the game plan here? Do we go full Die Hard on them, or are we thinking more Mission Impossible?"

Rountree raised an eyebrow at the blond's joke. "Pretty sure neither of those movies had families and kids in the crossfire, Deeks."

Deeks shrugged, still grinning. "Hey, I'm just trying to lighten the mood. But seriously, guys, what's the plan?"

Callen rolled his eyes, used to Deeks' antics. The jokes were how the man coped and, although they weren't always in the best taste, he understood the tendency. "I'm staying under," he stated bluntly. "We need the intel." He turned towards his partner. "Coordinate with local law enforcement?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, let's brief the LAPD and FBI. We need to cover all exits, anticipate any moves they might make."

He turned to Deeks. "You handle LAPD and FBI while we look into the backgrounds of the new names that came up."

Deeks dipped his head slightly and started taking out his cell phone. "On it."

He turned to the others. "There's minimal security on the side entrance," he explained. "They're focusing on the main and back entrances."

Sam played with his face momentarily. "At least that gives us some sort of opening." He eyed Callen. "Let's get blueprints and walk through this."

While the blond was making the call, Callen, Sam, and Rountree got a copy of the CIPC's building schematics from Kensi and Fatima, starting to hammer out a way to breach if it got to that point that would be the most effective against AGL's plan.

By 1600, Callen found himself outside of Nate's spa-like office, feeling a mixture of reluctance and necessity. It was a condition of his return to work, after all. Moreover, Nate had always been a steadying presence for him. He knew it often did help to talk, but there was still a tiny voice in the back of his head telling him to just turn around and not bother with it. He had to squash it though.

Nate glanced over as Callen made himself walk in, a welcoming smile on the man's face. "Hey, Callen. Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?"

He nodded, sitting down on the couch across from Nate's chair. The familiarity of the psychologist's question was somewhat comforting. "Sure, thanks."

Nate poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Callen before taking his own seat. "So, how's being back at work?"

Callen took a deep breath, staring into his coffee for a moment before meeting Nate's gaze. "It's been busy. You know how OSP is."

"Nightmares?" the Operational Psychologist pressed.

He crossed his arms and nodded curtly. "Yeah, but I handled it."

Nate observed him closely, the other man's demeanour both supportive and analytical. "And how'd you manage it?"

He uncrossed his arms, letting them fall to his sides. "I got out of bed, splashed some water on my face, and went for a run."

Nate nodded, acknowledging Callen's chosen coping methods. "Exercise can be a good outlet. How are you sleeping otherwise?"

Callen shrugged slightly. "It's hit or miss. Some nights are better than others. But you know I've always been that way." Growing up in the foster system, often needing to be on high alert, would do that to a person.

Nate tilted his head slightly and chuckled. "Oh, I'm well aware that you've always been a bit of a night owl. But with everything that's happened recently, it's fully understandable if your sleep is more disrupted than usual." The psychologist leaned forward slightly. "It's important to give yourself time to relax and unwind as well."

"More like climb the walls," he quipped. I've done more than enough of that lately. He adopted a slightly more serious look. "I get what you mean, though."

Nate pressed his lips together as he considered Callen's words. "Being vigilant doesn't mean you have to be constantly on edge," the psychologist remarked. "Sometimes it's about finding that balance between vigilance and allowing yourself to step back, even just for a moment." He leaned forward slightly. "Finding ways to relax, even briefly, can help you recharge mentally and emotionally."

The mug warmed Callen's hands as he raised it to his lips, the scent of freshly brewed coffee enveloping him like a familiar embrace. He savoured the rich bitterness on his tongue as he took in the Operational Psychologist's words. "Yeah, I know. It's just hard to switch gears sometimes."

"Well, you're not alone in feeling that," Nate assured him. "That's pretty common with agents. And the fact that you're aware of it is a step in the right direction."

Callen nodded, letting the gestured stand on its own. Actions always spoke louder than words in his world.

"And are you still having any doubts about your situational awareness?" Nate asked.

"No," he said. "I mean, I want to know where I slipped up so I can avoid it, but I know I'm good at what I do and that it happens sometimes. Not beating myself up over it or anything. I'm focused."

Nate nodded. "Alright then. So, I wanted to touch on something else from not our last session but the one before," the other man stated. "We were discussing Drona and you mentioned Hetty encouraging you to not join the C.I.A?"

"Yeah," he said. "Senior year of high school I started seeing this girl, Jocelyn. Her dad owns a business, Anderson Consulting. It was all lined up… I was going to go work at the Chicago office while she went to UChicago."

Nate leaned forward slightly. "But you broke up with her," the man deduced.

"Yeah," he said with a small nod. "An office job… I just couldn't stomach it. It just felt like I had to join. And I wanted the resources to learn about my past. So, I broke up with Jocelyn right before shipping out to the Farm." Literally the morning of my flight to Virginia. "When I got in the car afterwards, Hetty told me I was throwing away my one chance at a nice, peaceful life."

The Operational Psychologist furrowed a brow. "What did you say?"

He crossed his arms again and signed. "That I didn't want that life. That if I got out of the car I'd never get the answers I needed. She respected my choice although warned me it would probably be lonely."

"I see. What about an office job couldn't you stomach?" Nate questioned. "And how do you feel about that choice now?"

Callen took a moment to reflect, his eyes distant as he delved into the reasons behind his decision. "An office job... it was everything I didn't want," he said, his voice steady yet laced with an underlying intensity. "Routine, predictability, a life where everything was neatly planned out. That scared me." He sighed. "And everything else just felt… wrong somehow too. But I couldn't explain it."

"You felt like it was expected of you even though she told you it was your choice?" the Operational Psychologist surmised.

"Yeah," he admitted with a small sigh. "It wasn't until much later that I realized it was Pembrook's voice in my head, telling me I had to do it."

Callen found himself nodding along, a familiar sense of duty and obligation washing over him after so long in the training program. A slight note of pride as well at the subtle praise. "Yes, sir. I'll work harder."

"See that you do," Mr. Pembrook remarked. "You're a subject, Seventeen. An asset. Your training here and the missions you undergo after graduating from here are all that matter."

Callen pushed down a pang of frustration, nodding once again. Mr. Pembrook was right as always; this was his purpose. Nobody expected him to amount to or excel at anything outside of tradecraft. "Yes, sir. I understand."

Nate nodded in understanding. "He made it sound like there was no other path for you. Like your entire existence was predetermined by their training and expectations. That you had to become an operative."

He dipped his head lightly. "Yeah. He called the intelligence community our world and we all knew what was expected of us upon graduation." His hands tightened around the coffee mug. And he made the other subjects beat me when I said I didn't think I wanted to be an operative.

Nate listened attentively, his expression sympathetic. "That kind of conditioning can be incredibly powerful," he remarked softly. "Especially starting at such a young age." He sat up a bit straighter. "In the end, you joined. How do you feel about that now?"

"As challenging as it is, I'm where I belong," he stated. "My role in this fight… it makes sense to me. I can't see myself doing anything else. Never have been able to. And it's not just about the missions anymore. It's about the people that I care about as well, like Anna, Hetty and the team."

Nate gave him a small smile. "You're no longer the Grey Man you once were. Despite everything that was imposed on you, you carved out a path for yourself."

Callen nodded, a small, rueful smile touching his lips at Nate's comment. "Yeah, even though I fought it pretty much every step of the way." I'm definitely better off for my Grey Man days being behind me. Something that wouldn't have happened if it weren't for Hetty and Sam refusing to give up on me.

The pair continued chatting for a few more minutes and then, satisfied that Callen was handling his return to work alright, Nate drew the session to a close.

Walking into the bullpen back at the Office of Special Projects, he felt a renewed sense of focus. The team was seated at their desks, still doing background checks going by the small glimpse he'd caught of Sam's computer screen. They all looked up as Callen walked in, ready to brief him as needed.

His partner's gaze met Callen's with a silent question. "Everything good?" he asked, his tone both casual and probing. How did your therapy session with Nate go?

"Yeah," he replied before attempting to change topics. "Where are we at?" It was fine, but I'm not talking about it right now.

"LAPD and FBI are on board and we've got eyes on the entrances," Deeks said. "We're just doing the remaining background checks now."

"Good," Callen replied as he sat down at his desk. The extra manpower will definitely help. "Who's left to background check?"

"Why don't you take Anthony Brooks and James Oakes?" Sam suggested.

He nodded in agreement with his partner's suggestion. "Alright," he said as he opened and turned on his work laptop. He then quickly pulled up everything that NCIS had on Anthony Brooks and began combing through it.

The team worked in concentrated silence for the next hour, the only sounds in the bullpen being the clicking of keys and the occasional hushed conversation. Callen focused intently on the details of Anthony Brooks' background, looking for any red flags or connections that could give them an edge. The clock on the wall ticked steadily towards the end of their shift, seeming to highlight the lack of tangible progress they felt like they were making. The long game often felt like that.

As the hour drew to a close, Callen glanced up and caught Sam's eye. "Alright, let's call it a day," he suggested, his voice cutting through the silence. "We'll pick this up first thing tomorrow."

The team all nodded in agreement, more than happy to go home for the night. Callen began shutting down his laptop and pulling out his phone. He quickly sent a message to his wife: 'Wrapping up here. You able to pick me up?'

His wife's reply came a few short moments later: 'Sure. Be there in 20.'

He smiled instantly at the thought of seeing her. "Anna's on her way," he announced to the team. "We're having dinner with Nell and Eric."

"Nice," Deeks replied with a grin. "Tell them we said hi."

"Will do," Callen said as he gathered his things.

Not wanting to wait outside, Callen decided to kill some time in the gym. As he headed toward the small gym area within the office, Sam's voice stopped him.

"Hey, G!" Sam called out, walking over to him with purpose. "Mind if I join you?"

He paused, only mildly surprised. He knew what Sam was trying to do, after all. "Sure, Big Guy. It's always fun kicking your butt at hoops."

His partner rolled his eyes rather incredulously yet good-naturedly. "Yeah, okay, Isaiah Thomas."

He really couldn't let the short joke pass. "Hey, it's not my fault I have a better view of the court from down here," Callen quipped.

They made their way to the gym and headed straight for the basketball court. Callen grabbed a ball and started dribbling, the rhythmic sound echoing through the empty space. Sam joined him, stretching a bit before signalling that he was ready to play.

"First to ten?" Callen suggested, a competitive glint in his striking blue eyes.

"You're on," Sam replied with a grin.

They started playing, their movements fluid and practiced. The familiar rhythm of the game was comforting and they pushed each other just enough to keep it challenging. The physical exertion was a welcome release, a way to clear their minds and focus on something tangible. As they played, Callen felt some of the day's tension melt away, the steady rhythm of the game grounding him.

By the time they finished, Callen was feeling quite a bit more centred. He checked his cell phone and saw a message from Anna: 'Я здесь.' (I'm here.)

Switching his keyboard into Russian, he texted his wife back. 'Хорошо, я иду.' He then quickly wiped off the sweat on his face with his towel and grabbed his go-bag. "Anna's here," he told Sam. "See you tomorrow." (Okay, I'm coming.)

Sam shot him a pointed look. "Curbside, 8:50." The former SEAL then clasped him on the shoulder and smiled. "And enjoy dinner."

He smirked and arched a brow. "Will do, Partner."

He made his way out of the gym and through the main entrance. Outside, he spotted Anna's car and walked over, his steps quickening with anticipation. She greeted him with a warm smile as he slid into the passenger seat. "Hey," she said, leaning over to give him a quick kiss. "How was your day?"

"Busy," he replied. "But it's good to see you. How was yours? You had court, right?"

"Court could've gone smoother," she said, "but it was fine." She started the car. "Let's go get some food. I'm excited to see Eric and Nell."

As they drove through the city, Callen tried to take Nate's advice and let his mind shift gears, focusing on the evening ahead, the chance to unwind over dinner with friends. There were going to be plenty of challenges ahead, that was just the nature of things, but for now, he would try and take a break and regroup.

Chapter 94: Targets, Traditions, and Tactical Briefs

The hum of fluorescent lights and the sharp sound of gunfire filled the air as Sam and Callen stood side by side at the shooting range. The Monday morning sun had barely risen, but the duo had decided to get a bit of training in before work.

Sam took his yellow ear headphones off and glanced over at Callen. "So, have you talked to Aiden? He's planning on proposing to Amanda."

Callen, mid-reload, looked up at his partner and took off his own pair of headphones. His surogate nephew was planning to propose? "Seriously? That's great. They've been together for like, what, four years now?"

His partner nodded, reloading his own weapon. "Yeah, it's been just over four. I think he's been wanting to for a while, but he wanted to wait until her business was up and running and things settled a bit. For them both."

Callen nodded, aware she'd been trying to get a clothing brand off the ground. Not the easiest industry to get into. "Makes sense. Balancing a military career and personal life is hard enough without adding starting a business to the mix."

"Definitely," Sam agreed before they both put their bulky ear protection back on. "So, you and Anna still coming over for Thanksgiving this year?"

"Of course," Callen replied with a smile. It was an old tradition that had taken a bit of a hit after the loss of Michelle. "I spoke with Hetty yesterday and she said she'll be coming. Same with Arkady." Which only slightly surprised Callen; he'd half expected the older Russian to decline the invitation to Thanksgiving.

Arkady dipped his head slightly. "Of course, I will go to dinner party."

Callen looked at Arkady, raising an eyebrow in slight surprise. "Really? Didn't expect you to be interested in Thanksgiving."

Arkady gave a small shrug, "I am not doing it for the holiday. I am doing it for my daughter and for you. It is family gathering, and this is what matters."

He and Sam then fired off several more rounds at their respective targets. After they'd emptied their magazines again, he and Sam both removed their ear protection for the final time and hung them up. Then they took down their respective targets and made their way to the armoury to clean their weapons.

About twenty minutes later, he and Sam headed to the bullpen to join their team who were sitting at their desks and chatting about their holiday plans. Even Hetty had taken a moment to join the group.

Fatima immediately greeted them. "Hey, Sam, Callen."

"Good morning," Callen replied as he and Sam both walked in and headed straight for the small coffee bar to pour themselves a cup.

"Morning, boys!" Deeks greeted with a grin, leaning back in his chair slightly. "We were just discussing our plans for Thanksgiving."

Kensi nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. "We've got my mom and Deeks' coming over. It's going to be a full house and Rosa's looking forward to it."

"I bet Rosa's excited to have Grandma Julie around," Fatima said with a smile. They saw Deeks' mother constantly but Kensi's less often. "I'll be driving up to my parents' house for dinner. It'll be just the three of us… which is always interesting."

"Me and Jordyn are joining Summer and her family this year," Rountree shared. "So, a little less low-key than we're used to."

"Nothing wrong with that," Sam replied, taking a swig of his cup of coffee.

"Nope," Rountree readily agreed. "I'm actually looking forward to something different."

"I will be at Mr. Hanna's for dinner," Hetty said, chiming in. "Which should be delightful if interesting given some of the expected company."

He shot Deeks a pointed look. "Arkady's coming."

"Arkady, huh?" Deeks replied, clearly intrigued by the prospect. "That'll make things interesting."

Callen arched a brow, still grinning. "To put it mildly." He eyed his adoptive mother and tilted his head a tad. "Of course, you can always handcuff Arkady to a car again."

His adoptive mother chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I may very well do that, Mr. Callen, should the situation warrant it."

Kensi gave a little snort, shaking her head in evident amusement. "I can't believe you actually handcuffed him to a car, Hetty."

Rountree's eyes widened. "And that's a story I really need to hear. Come on."

Hetty gave a small, cheeky smile. "Well, desperate times call for desperate measures, Ms. Blye. And Arkady does have a unique talent for being rather a thorn in one's side."

Fatima looked up from her coffee, her expression one of amused curiosity. "It sounds like Arkady really knows how to push your buttons, Hetty."

Hetty turned towards the junior agent. "Oh, he's quite adept at it, Ms. Namazi." Her blue eyes twinkled with amusement as she continued. "But that's a story for another time, Mr. Rountree. We've got work to do."

"Understood," Rountree replied with a small nod.

The team's demeanours immediately shifted, the playful banter quickly giving way to focused determination. All of them needed to have their head in the game for their tactical mission later that morning.

Hetty turned towards the junior agent. "Ms. Namazi, coordinate with the LAPD and FBI units covering the entrances and ensure all bugs they placed on site are secure and operational."

Fatima nodded, already pulling out his phone to start making calls. "Got it."

"Ms. Blye," Hetty continued, turning to Kensi, "I need you to manage the surveillance feeds around the building. Verify that we have a clear view of all the exits and monitor for any unusual activity."

Kensi gave a small nod. "Will do."

"Mr. Deeks, you'll be our point of contact with the local media," Hetty stated. "Work with LAPD to prepare a statement to manage public perception and help keep the media sharks away from the scene unless absolutely unavoidable."

Deeks nodded, reaching for his cell phone. "On it."

"Mr. Hanna, you'll be leading the team breaching the location," Hetty said, turning towards Sam. "Providing overwatch until then with Mr. Rountree." She turned to Callen and shot him a pointed look. "And, Mr. Callen, do maintain your cover for as long as possible today. I'd prefer to avoid a repeat of Houston if you don't mind."

He rolled his eyes at the reference, largely attributing the fiasco of that case to the terrible operator that he'd been forced to work that case with. He'd done his job perfectly fine. He eyed his team. "Alright, let's do this."

The group dispersed to their respective tasks, the atmosphere in the bullpen shifting from casual to focused as they prepared for the day's mission. Callen made his way to wardrobe, trying to decide how he should dress for the job. After a brief assessment, he decided to just stick with what he'd worn from home - a pair of denim jeans, a blue t-shirt, a black leather jacket, and tan dress shoes. It was a practical choice that kept him comfortable and inconspicuous. The attire was nice enough to fit in with the crowd at the event while keeping with the casual look that AGL expected.

Callen left wardrobe and made his way to the stairs, heading up to the Operations Centre. As he climbed, he noticed Kensi coming down the stairs, clearly heading towards him with purpose. She had a small and very familiar case in her hand.

"Hey, Callen," she said, meeting him halfway. "Heading to get your equipment?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "Just need a button cam and earwig and I'm good to go."

Kensi handed Callen the small case with a nod. "Here you go. The button cam's set to record and the earwig's fully charged."

"Thanks, Kens!" Callen said as he opened the small case and began placing both of the aforementioned devices on his person.

Kensi dipped her head slightly. "Good luck today."

He nodded curtly and went and got a weapon from the armoury. He then made his way back to the bullpen. Once he walked in, he checked in with the rest of his team briefly, making sure everything was going as planned. He shoved his wedding ring in the top drawer of his desk and, after checking the time, started making his way to the motor pool.

In the rather famous words of the highly unconventional Sherlock Holmes, "The game's afoot!"

Chapter 95: The Tactical Crossfire

Callen drove to the rendezvous point where the AGL members were set to meet, his mind racing with the details of the plan he had to stop. Parking his car a few blocks away from the location, he walked the rest of the way, doing his best to blend in with the morning crowd.

Arriving at the rendezvous point, he met up with Slade, Cyrus, Darren, Morrow, Blaise, and the rest of the AGL members involved in the operation.

The air was tense with anticipation as they all put on their black ski masks. "Everyone ready?" Cyrus asked, the man's voice low but commanding.

"Ready," Callen and several other people replied, his eyes scanning the group for any signs of hesitation he could manipulate.

As the group moved towards the CIPC's headquarters and the side entrance, Callen discretely turned on his button cam, ensuring that his team had a live feed. "Alright, almost time for some coffee," he whispered into his comms, careful not to draw any unwanted attention to the action.

"Copy that," his partner replied. "Watch your six, G. We'll breach on your signal."

"Nice building," Morrow remarked. Given the man's paranoid nature, Callen figured it was some sort of test. "Shame they waste it on those animals."

Callen gave a little snort, playing along. God, I need to wash this filth off when this is all over. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't let on that he disagreed with their views. "I know, right?! The money could be going toward helping actual Americans," he agreed, feeling a slight pang of guilt as he knew that Sam and Rountree were both listening in.

"But that doesn't fit the regime's agenda," a guy named Jasper chimed in.

"Exactly," Justin readily agreed. "It's disgusting… the filthy damn monkeys."

The AGL members breached the side entrance, two of the guys quickly overpowering one of the security guards. Callen locked eyes with the second guard, a young man barely out of his teens. I'm sorry. With that thought, Callen slipped behind the guard and choked him out. The guard's struggling weakened until he slumped unconscious, and Callen gently lowered the kid to the ground. Cyrus stayed close to Callen, keeping his hand near the concealed weapon on his hip.

Cyrus directed the group towards the designated room where they planned to hold the two staff hostages. "Remember, no mistakes," the man stated, his brown eyes locking onto Callen's blue ones for a moment.

He gave a small nod. "Understood."

Callen's senses were on high alert as they all walked through the centre. The building was filled with the sounds of families talking and children running around. The laughter and excited chatter was short-lived though as two of the staff members, caught off guard, were grabbed and held at gunpoint by Todd and Kyle.

The staff members struggled - their fear palpable - but were both soon restrained.

"Nice work," a guy named Dominick added with a smirk.

"Agreed," Cyrus said. The man then indicated the two hostages with his hand and shot him and Blaise a pointed look. "Put 'em in the room over there."

He and Blaise gave the man a small nod and then they forced the two hostages into a room at the back where Blaise stayed to keep an eye on the pair. Before Callen walked out though, Blaise got his attention. "I've got to make sure I don't screw this up," he muttered. "Last time didn't go well, and I'm not getting cut out. Not after everything I've done to be here."

"You've made it this far," he replied. "That means something." With that, he turned to the hostages, hoping to make them stay calm. He didn't want them killed because of this. He approached the pair, giving them both a stern look. "Stay quiet and do exactly as you're told. We're almost finished here."

The hostages, eyes wide, nodded silently. They were still scared but he couldn't offer more than what still seemed like a veiled threat. Not without blowing his cover. Callen then joined Slade and the others in the main room, arriving just in time to see Cyrus ordering several hostages to stand by the windows. At least that was something they'd anticipated while planning.

Cyrus's frustration mounted as the hostages moved slowly, their fear causing them to fumble and hesitate. "Hurry up!" Cyrus barked, his voice rising with irritation. "Unless you want us to shoot you."

"We've got no patience for those who don't follow orders," the brother, Darren, chimed in. "Especially the black, brown and yellow ones!"

Callen bit his tongue again, glad he wouldn't have to pretend to agree with these people for much longer.

Morrow, standing nearby, shared the guys' irritation. His patience was wearing thin as he watched the hostages struggle to comply. The man's hand was twitching at his side as if eager and ready to draw his gun. "Move!"

Realizing the danger of the situation, Callen sprang into action. He drew the Glock 17 that he had signed out of the armoury, taking a step towards the hostages. "Let's go!" he shouted, hoping they'd actually listen. "Windows now! Move it!"

The hostages, quite visibly shaken by Callen's sudden outburst, quickened their pace, their fear evident in their trembling hands and wide eyes. The room erupted in a flurry of activity as the aforementioned hostages rushed to the windows as directed.

Cyrus, initially surprised by his aggressive approach, soon allowed a satisfied smirk to spread across his face. "Well done, Walinski," he said approvingly. "Looks like you've got a knack for handling pressure."

Callen nodded, remaining focused on the hostages to ensure they continued to follow his directions. His heart raced as he tried to maintain control over the situation, mindful of the tension in the room.

Slade, watching the exchange, gave Callen a nod of approval. "Not bad," he remarked, appreciating the way Callen had taken charge.

"This isn't my first rodeo," he replied with a raised brow, making sure to keep his voice steady. He then said the code telling the task force that they needed to breach and do it soon. There were so many civilians inside, making it an extremely risky op. "If there was ever a time to handle business, it's now."

Sam's voice crackled over their comms and Callen made sure to not visibly react to it. There was a reason the task force hadn't used alarms and approached on foot. "We're in position. All teams breaching in five."

As Callen maintained his position, the anticipation was almost unbearable. His tried to keep the hostages in place and ensure they complied with Cyrus' instructions, despite the mounting tension in the room.

Finally, the front door of the building exploded inward with a deafening crash as Alpha Team, led by FBI Agent Rand stormed in. The surprise and chaos were instant. AGL members at the front were caught off guard, their attempts to respond being quickly thwarted by the profuse force of the FBI agents confronting them.

At the same time, Bravo Team, with Sam leading, forced their way through the back entrance. The noise and commotion drew the attention of some of the AGL members, who were starting to panic. They scrambled to counter the sudden intrusion, their plans unravelling as they faced coordinated resistance.

Charlie Team, entering through the side door, faced off against the AGL members who tried to defend the entry point. The LAPD unit moved with precision, taking down the resistance and securing their section of the building.

Cyrus and the remaining AGL members were stunned by the simultaneous breaches. Their initial shock quickly turned into frantic efforts to maintain control. Cyrus barked orders, trying to reorganize his men, but the task force's coordinated assault made it hard.

"Focus! We have to hold 'em off!" Cyrus shouted, but his orders were drowned out by the cacophony of gunfire and the shouting around them.

Morrow, seeing their plans disintegrate, furiously tried to reposition himself to engage with law enforcement easier but quickly found himself cornered by Bravo Team. Slade and the others were similarly flustered, although they did their best to regroup amidst the rather chaotic environment they were in.

Dominick, seeing the situation deteriorate rapidly, tried to move toward the hostages, trying to use them as human shields. However, the well-coordinated entry by the task force prevented the guy from making any significant progress.

The AGL members who had been so confident moments before were now desperately trying to fend off the task force. Their initial aggression turned into panic as they were systematically overpowered by the coordinated efforts of Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie Teams. Which, of course, had been the goal.

In the midst of this chaos, Callen's primary goal was to keep his cover intact while also ensuring the hostages stayed as safe as possible. He moved strategically among them, using the Glock 17 to appear menacing while discretely protecting them.

As Cyrus and the other AGL members reacted to the three coordinated breaches, their attempts to control the situation became increasingly desperate. Callen used the noise and confusion to his advantage, putting himself between the civilians and the crossfire whenever possible, trying to avoid them being caught in the crossfire. Unfortunately, a hostage had taken a shot to the shoulder while several agents were getting them out. Thankfully, it appeared to have missed the artery.

Callen did his best to appear as though he was following Cyrus' orders, made easier by all of the confusion. Eventually, though, he felt like he needed to break his cover when Kyle tried to grab a teenage girl while she tried to escape. One of the few civilians who were still in the building at that point.

He aimed his weapon, intending to make it look like he was targeting one of the LEOs behind Kyle. Before he could do it, though, he felt something hit his chest followed by a really sharp, stinging sensation. Callen staggered slightly, his breath catching in his throat as the impact sent him reeling. He panicked a bit before his partner locked eyes with him and he realized Sam had fired a simunition at him. It hurt, but he would be completely fine even if a little bruised.

He clutched his chest and gritted his teeth as if really struck. He then dropped to one knee, trying to make his reaction as convincing as possible before appearing to turn and try and find some cover. He then felt another simunition round hit his upper back and pretended to collapse on the hardwood floor.

The sight of Callen falling to the ground caused a momentary distraction among the remaining AGL members. Dominick, who had been trying to maneuver towards the last two hostages, froze, momentarily thrown off by the apparent drop in numbers. This hesitation allowed the task force to gain further ground and finally subdue the remaining four AGL members. The remaining hostages, though shaken, were quickly evacuated and escorted to safety.

Callen lay on the ground, his breath steadying as he listened to the commotion going on all around him. He kept his eyes closed, remaining still to maintain the illusion of being incapacitated from the shootout.

As the dust settled and the last of the AGL members were subdued, he felt a firm hand on his left shoulder. He opened his eyes to see his partner kneeling beside him. Sam pretended to check Callen's vitals, his expression cold. "You alright, G?" Sam asked softly, his tone the only thing that gave him away.

"Yeah, just a little bruised," he replied through gritted teeth, making sure to not visibly move. He was supposed to be playing dead, after all.

Sam gave an approving little hum before he turned to one of the other LEOs on scene and said, "He's gone." The former Navy SEAL rummaged through Callen's pants pocket and pulled out his undercover wallet. "Steven Walinski, fifty-four."

As Sam declared Walinski "dead," FBI Agent Reese's familiar voice acknowledged it, presumably aware that it was part of the ruse. "Noted."

Reese and Sam then both left to finish securing the crime scene and overseeing the EMTs as they took the injured and dead AGL members out.

Once it was only the LEOs left, Sam approached Callen, who was still lying on the floor, waiting for the all-clear. "Good job, G. You can get up now."

He eagerly rose to his feet, giving Sam a relieved look. "Glad that's over."

"You won't get no argument from me," Sam agreed. Callen then wrapped himself in a blanket his partner had brought and they headed out into the back alley. Careful not to be seen, they quickly hopped into the black Dodge Charger parked there.

As Callen straightened up, he rubbed his bruised chest and back, wincing slightly from the pain. The adrenaline from the operation was still pumping through his veins, and he was grateful for the moment of quiet. He did notice the contrite look that crossed his partner's face when he rubbed his chest, though, and felt guilty about worrying Sam. "I'm fine, Big Guy. Really."

Sam nodded, turning his focus onto the road as they pulled out and started the drive to the Boatshed for their operational debrief.

They were mostly silent on the drive in, which suited Callen just fine given the slight physical discomfort and adrenaline crash. They stopped to quickly switch into Sam's black Challenger and then before long, they were pulling up near the Boatshed.

As Sam and Callen arrived at the Boatshed, the building was buzzing with the lead FBI agent, the NCIS team, and the lead LAPD officer present for the debriefing. Hetty was there, unsurprisingly, and already speaking with FBI Agent Rand and LAPD Sergeant Churchill, who they'd worked with only once before.

Hetty's gaze instantly fell on him as he entered. It was almost inscrutable but Callen, who knew her well, could spot the tinge of concern in her eyes. "Mr. Callen," she said. "Good to see you're still in one piece."

He gave her a lopsided smile. "Just a bit bruised, Hetty. Nothing I can't handle."

"Indeed," Hetty replied. "Care to start us off?"

"Sure," he said, swiftly launching into everything that had happened since he'd arrived at the rendezvous point earlier. A lot of the tactical mission had been recorded over their communications devices and cameras, but the confirmation was still important.

When the debriefing concluded a while later, Hetty approached Callen, her concern evident despite her professional demeanour. "Before you leave, Mr. Callen, I'd like to have a look at those injuries."

He gave a resigned nod, knowing Hetty's determination was not easily swayed. He followed her to a quiet corner of the Boatshed where she could examine his bruises more closely. Hetty gently prodded his chest and back, her touch careful but thorough.

"Nothing serious, thankfully," she remarked after a few moments. "Just some bruising. You did well today."

"Thanks," he replied, giving his adoptive mother a small smile. It could've gone so much worse. "It was messy, but we got it done."

Hetty nodded. "Well, messy's good. Gives you a chance to appreciate the clean."

Callen wanted to wince a little as his adoptive mother disinfected the small abrasion on his back but instead gave her a wry smile. "Fair enough."

She arched a brow. "I don't need to tell you that the alias is officially N.L.V?"

"Nope," he said with a small head-shake. "Walinski can ride off into the sunset."

She gave a little hum. "Glad you agree." Her expression softened and she switched to Romanian. "Mă bucur că ești bine, fiule." (I'm glad you're okay, Son.)

"Și eu, mamă," he said in Romanian. "Am fost împușcat de destule ori." (Me too, Mom. I've been shot enough times as it is.)

"Oh, sunt conștient de asta," Hetty replied with an exasperated air at the memory of getting him through the hospital stay and physical rehab after two separate shootings. He'd never been an easy patient. (Oh, I'm well aware of that.)

He gave his adoptive mother a cheeky smile. "Cel puțin a trecut ceva timp." (At least it's been a while.)

His adoptive mother wordlessly eyed him and shook her head in exasperation..

With his minor injuries dealt with, Callen joined Sam and they headed back to OSP to get some paperwork done alongside the rest of the team. The paperwork for the latest operation was extensive, but it came with the territory. Although they all focused, they did exchange the occasional comments and jokes to break up the monotony somewhat.

By the end of their shift, they were all ready for a change of pace and to call it a day.

Rountree leaned back in his chair, giving a tired but satisfied sigh. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm glad that's done."

"Same," Fatima replied. "I could go for a cold drink."

Rountree closed his laptop. "I'm in."

Kensi's eyes lit up with anticipation. "Ooh."

Deeks pointed down the street, acting a bit like a tourist guide. "Well, you know what, there's a new Korean restaurant I've been wanting to try."

Excitement filled Kensi's voice. "Ooh, I could definitely eat. I could eat." The brunette's expression turned thoughtful. "It is a school night for Rosa, though, so we can't be out too late tonight."

Fatima nodded, chuckling. "I wasn't planning on it."

Deeks looked over at Sam and Callen. "You guys in?"

"You guys have to come," Kensi said.

Sam reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the basketball game tickets, waving them slightly. "Actually, G and I got tickets to tonight's Clippers game," he replied with a grin. "We've gotta head out soon."

"Oh, right!" Kensi replied with a smile. "You mentioned that. Well, have fun!"

He nodded, giving her a warm smile. "Thanks! Enjoy dinner. Maybe I'll catch up with you after the game if it's still early enough." His wife was out with her friends Stacy and Emily, so it was just him.

"Yeah, great!" Kensi agreed. "Just shoot us a text." The teenager's bedtime was 2200 on school nights but the adults didn't follow the same routine.

With that, Callen and Sam got ready to head out, making the short drive down to the Staples Centre to see the Clippers play against the Nets.

As they took their seats in the crowded arena, Callen leaned back, letting the roar of the crowd wash over him. He then briefly glanced over at Sam, who was already engrossed in the pre-game warm-ups, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

For a few hours, at least, they could leave the chaos of their job behind.

Chapter 96: Reverberations

Callen had barely slept that night, his mind too restless to allow for more than a few brief catnaps. As the clock inched closer to dawn, he finally gave up on the idea of sleep altogether. Insomnia was not a new thing for him, but it had been awful that night. Every time he'd closed his eyes, he was back in that damn room with the MSS agents being tortured or at the CIPC event watching a bunch of civilians die because the task force failed.

Slipping quietly out of bed, careful not to disturb Anna, he threw a t-shirt and shorts on before leaving their bedroom. Come on, Callen. Control your damn emotions. Get ahold of yourself. Don't feel.

Part of him was aware of the mindset he'd just slipped into, but another part of him couldn't be bothered to really care right at that moment. He needed a break. What would Nate say to you right now?" he mentally chastised himself.

The kitchen was still cloaked in shadows as Callen flicked on a light. He stretched his arms and legs, trying to shake off the stiffness from the broken sleep. The familiar creak of the floorboards under his feet provided some comfort, grounding him as he moved about. He then filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, the soft hiss from it filling the early morning silence.

While waiting for the water to boil, he found himself eyeing the toaster. Without much thought, he decided to take it apart - a longtime habit that he couldn't really explain. He just knew it was born out of needing to keep his hands busy. Callen meticulously unscrewed the panels, laying each piece out on the counter.

Once the kettle had finished boiling, Callen poured the hot water over a tea bag and took a moment to enjoy the fragrant steam rising from the cup. With his hot tea in hand, Callen returned to the toaster, meticulously reassembling it piece by piece. The rhythmic process of putting the thing back together was oddly calming, helping Callen focus his scattered thoughts and offering a fleeting sense of control.

With the toaster finally reassembled, looking none the worse for wear, and the cup of tea warming his hands, he took a seat in the window nook. The sky was still dark, a few stars stubbornly clinging to their place above the city. He took a sip, the warmth spreading through him, and decided to make use of the time on his hands. Grabbing his tablet, he opened up one of his language programs and began reviewing Pashto - a language he had picked up bits and pieces of over the years but never fully mastered.

The structure of the language gave Callen's mind something to focus on, something to channel his energy into. As Callen worked through various phrases and vocabulary, the time slipped by, the sky gradually lightening as morning approached.

It wasn't until nearly half-past seven when Callen finally closed the program, feeling a little more centred. Anna would be waking up soon and he was starting to get hungry. Deciding he wanted breakfast, he grabbed his wallet and keys, heading out to pick up some of their favourites from EggSlut.

He returned home just as the first light of dawn began to filter through the curtains. The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted him as he set the takeout bag on the kitchen counter. Anna, dressed in a cozy robe, appeared from the hallway, her blonde hair slightly tousled still from sleep.

His wife gave him a soft smile, her eyes instantly brightening at the sight of the breakfast that he'd brought. "EggSlut? Ty menya baluyesh," she teased in Russian, moving in to kiss him. (You're spoiling me.)

"Ya podumal, chto my oba zasluzhili ugoshchenie," he stated, returning the kiss before starting to pull out the food. He handed her one of the breakfast sandwiches and they settled at the kitchen table. (I figured we both deserve a treat.)

"Nu, spasibo," Anna replied, taking a bite of the warm breakfast sandwich. (Well, thank you.)

As they ate breakfast, Anna discreetly studied his face. He knew his wife well enough to see the flicker of concern on her face. "You get any sleep last night?" she asked in English, her tone gentle but probing.

"Uh, not a whole lot," he replied honestly. Callen took a slow sip of his coffee. "It's my case against the MSS and the Op my team just worked."

His wife nodded in understanding before tilting her head slightly and locking eyes with Callen questioningly. "You want to talk about it?"

Callen let out a light sigh. "Not right now. Thanks, though." He decided to change topics. "Arkady and Roberta still coming over for dinner at some point?" Most of that was probably from the latter, to be fair. Mama Deeks was extremely socially inclined.

"Yep," she confirmed with a small nod. "They're coming over tonight, actually."

He gave a little snort. "Well, that should be interesting."

"Somehow they oddly seem to work," Anna said with a soft chuckle. "I was thinking of just ordering in some Greek food for dinner."

"That's fine by me," he said with a lopsided smile. "You can never go wrong with some Souvlaki or Saganaki."

They finished their breakfast lightly chatting about whatever came to mind, enjoying the calm before the day fully kicked in. Afterward, he rinsed their dishes and started tidying up the kitchen, while Anna went to get ready for the day.

Shortly after, a horn honked outside, signalling Sam's arrival. Callen grabbed his jacket and gave Anna a quick kiss before heading out the door.

Sam greeted him with a smile and nod as Callen climbed into the Hellcat. "Morning, G. You look like you've been up for a while."

"Sleep's overrated," he quipped, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, tell that to my pillow," Sam shot back with a smirk as he started pulling out onto the street. "So, what's it this time, G?"

He rolled his eyes, not sure if he was more appreciative or annoyed at the moment by just how well his partner knew him. The corners of his mouth then twitched into a half-smile. "Oh, you know… the usual greatest hits."

"I get it," Sam said, his tone becoming more serious. "It's not good for you, G."

Callen glanced out the window, taking in the cityscape. "Some habits just die hard, I guess, Big Guy."

"Have you talked to Nate?" his partner asked, probably aware of the answer.

"Not since our last session," he admitted. There was no real point in denying it.

Sam nodded. "Maybe you should. Or Hetty." The former SEAL didn't press him further, understanding that Callen would talk to him when he was ready. Instead, they drove to the office in comfortable silence, the morning traffic providing a familiar if slightly tiresome backdrop.

At OSP, the team gathered in the gym for some morning exercise. The gym was alive with the sounds of light-hearted banter and sneakers squeaking on the floor. Kensi was sitting off to the side with Fatima, chatting about dating, while Deeks, Sam, Rountree, and Callen engaged in a game of half-court basketball.

"Come on, Callen! That the best you got?" Deeks called out as he tried to guard him.

Callen dribbled the ball with practiced ease, a smirk playing on his lips. "Don't worry, Deeks, I've got plenty left in the tank." With that, he faked out Deeks and sunk the basketball into the net.

He and Sam high-fived, pleased they were earning bragging rights.

Rountree rolled his eyes. "Deeks, they're crushing us."

The basketball game was fast-paced, with each of them showcasing their competitive spirit. Despite the weight on his mind, the physical exertion and friendly competition offered a brief respite, helping him stay in the moment.

As the basketball game wound down, Callen and the others cleaned up and made their way to the bullpen. The energy from their morning exercise lingered, but it was time to get back to work.

Eventually, Sam saw that he'd received an e-mail from one of his street contacts about an old case they'd worked on. "We might have a lead on that money laundering case from last year. Think it's worth checking out."

Callen immediately started getting to his feet. "I'll come with you."

"Great," his partner readily agreed.

They headed out towards the Venice pier to meet with Sam's street contact. It didn't take long, however, before they found themselves running into yet another dead end and heading back to the office.

Unfortunately, that was just in time for them to receive their bi-monthly office security assessments. Hardly the most exciting reports to read, although he did understand the reason behind them. Still, they were really dry.

"You'd think after all this time, someone would figure out a way to make these things less dry," Rountree muttered, scrolling through the report.

Fatima grinned. "If it's not broken, it's not the government way."

"They're important," Sam interjected, tone leaving no room for argument. "Last thing we need is a breach because someone got sloppy."

Deeks leaned in with a grin. "I guess the government's idea of excitement is a little different from ours."

"Clearly," Callen deadpanned, before opening and starting to read his report.

They spent the next hour or so going over the security assessments, making notes on areas that needed tightening up. The mood was focused, with the usual mix of banter woven through their work. Even Kensi, despite her pregnancy, remained sharp and engaged, offering insights as she reviewed the reports.

As they wrapped up the morning's tasks, Deeks leaned back in his chair, stretching. "So, what's the plan for lunch? I'm thinking tacos."

Sam arched a brow. "You always want tacos. Why don't we go for the shrimp curry?"

"You can't go wrong with tacos," Deeks replied with a grin. "And you have no room to talk, amigo, considering your curry addiction."

Fatima laughed, shaking her head. "I could go for tacos. But I also wouldn't say no to some shrimp curry."

"Everyone likes the shrimp curry," Sam replied.

Callen, who had been mostly quiet while reviewing the reports, started to reply when his cell phone buzzed on the desk. He glanced at the screen, recognizing the number immediately. His face tightened slightly.

"Hold that thought," he said, answering the call. "Callen."

The federal prosecutor's voice came through, calm and professional. "Hello, Mr. Callen, it's Counsellor Ogilvie. I'm calling about this morning's pre-trial hearing."

"Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair slightly. "How did it go?"

"Well, the defence filed a Motion to Suppress the phone call you made after escaping," the federal prosecutor explained.

His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles whitening and his chest constricting. The mere mention of the damn Motion to Suppress sent a rush of adrenaline through him, a surge of anger barely kept in check. "On what grounds?"

"They're arguing that it's more prejudicial than probative," the federal prosecutor said. "But the judge just ruled on it - denied the motion. The evidence stands."

Relief washed over him and he relaxed his grip. "Good," he said. If they get off, they'll come after me again. "You need to nail these guys to the wall."

"Oh, I intend to!" Counsellor Ogilvie said. "We'll continue to move forward as planned. I'll keep you updated on any further developments."

"Thanks," Callen said, his voice firm but clipped. He ended the call and shoved the cell phone back into his pocket, trying to keep the memories at bay.

Sam gave him a questioning look, and Callen shook his head slightly, signalling that he would explain later. He didn't want to delve into it in front of everybody.

"So, tacos then?" Deeks asked, oblivious to the tension that had briefly filled the room.

Drawing on years of training, Callen carefully schooled his expression. He then forced a cheeky grin as he glanced between Sam and Deeks. "You know, I think I could go for some shrimp curry."

Deeks rolled his eyes in feigned annoyance and his partner chuckled.

As they were gathering their things to head out for lunch, Callen's mind drifted back to the conversation with the federal prosecutor. The defence counsel was clearly trying to discredit him, which Callen was trying to not take personally.

His federal court case was far from over, and the memories of his time being held and tortured by the MSS were still quite fresh. But for now, he had a job to do and a team that had his back, no matter what.

After picking up lunch, they all returned to the office with boxes of food in hand. They set up a makeshift spread in the bullpen, gathering around to eat and unwind, chatting about whatever came to their minds.

As they finished their lunch, still nursing cups of coffee, Hetty entered the bullpen, her presence instantly commanding attention. "Mr. Callen and Mr. Hanna," she began, her tone serious. "I need the two of you to go to the Boatshed and speak with FBI Agent Duane Bryers. He has requested a briefing on Nathan Chen."

The former SEAL briefly glanced at him and Callen nodded in acknowledgment. They both remembered arresting Nathan Chen and the then sixteen-year-old's involvement with the Gaki Boyz. "Understood, Hetty. We'll head over now."

Quickly grabbing their things, Callen and Sam headed out to the car park, hopping into the Hellcat. As they drove, they speculated on why an FBI agent wanted to speak with them specifically. It was hardly the first time, though.

He and Sam arrived at the Boatshed not much later where Agent Bryers was already waiting for them. The man was in his mid-fifties, with short-cropped dark hair starting to show signs of greying at the temples and sharp green eyes.

Bryers looked up from his cell phone as they walked in and Callen's eyes locked onto the man immediately. It can't be him, can it? What are the odds? "Agent Bryers?" he said, his voice betraying a mixture of surprise and unease.

"I'm Agent Hanna," Sam greeted. "This is my partner, Agent Callen."

"Hi. Thanks for coming," Bryers replied. His gaze then met Callen's, and for a moment, the two men stared at each other, a flicker of surprise in Bryers' eyes as well. The guy then took a deep breath. "I didn't expect to see you here, Seventeen."

Callen's throat tightened, and he did his best to keep his voice steady. "Uh, yeah. It's been a long time, Sixteen." He then found himself thinking back to one of their field excursions for an Outdoor Survival class.

The sun was beating down on the sprawling ranch just off of Ernest E. Debs Regional Park. The dusty ground and air felt heavy and oppressive, almost as if it was pushing against them. Callen and Subject Sixteen stood in front of their cohort, sweat trickling down their backs, facing their head teacher. They were waiting on punishment for not performing to Mr. Pembrook's exacting standards.

The head teacher told the others to get back to their assignment and then turned his focus back to Callen and Subject Sixteen. Mr. Pembrook's voice was cold as he told them to assume a gruelling stress position: standing on the balls of their feet, their thighs parallel to the ground in a deep squat, while their hands were bound tightly behind their backs with zip-ties. The position forced them into an unnatural strain, their muscles soon screaming in protest.

His legs began to shake rather quickly from the intense strain of the position. Subject Sixteen, restrained the same way, shot him a pained but determined look. The position was intolerable, and every movement seemed to make the discomfort worse.

Mr. Pembrook approached Callen with a heavy wooden cane, his face a mask of stern detachment. The first strike landed sharply on Callen's back. He bit his lip, attempting to hold back a cry. Mr. Pembrook's harsh reprimand cut through the pain. "Don't cry, Seventeen. That's weakness. Remember, pain is just a state of mind. Don't feel. Don't cry."

Each blow was delivered by their head teacher with calculated precision, designed to test their endurance and push them to perform better. Subject Sixteen - who was equally being punished - fought to keep his expression rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The head teacher was relentless as he struck them. "Failure is unacceptable. In our world, he who fails, dies."

Both subjects nodded and gave the expected response, "I understand, sir."

The combination of the stress position and the caning created a relentless cycle of agony. The strain on their legs and the sharp pain from the cane seemed endless. Sweat trickled down his face, mingling with the dust and grime, and he was starting to feel really thirsty. Callen let the head teacher's words echo in his mind, trying to use them to help tune out some of the physical discomfort. He clung to the thought that this was for his own good - to make him stronger. He had to just keep thinking about the end goal and endure.

The punishment stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity. Callen and Subject Sixteen exchanged brief, weary glances, but both subjects knew better than to even attempt to complain. That would just make things worse. Callen's thoughts were a mix of pain and determination: "Just get through this. It'll be over soon. You deserve it for failing. Don't feel. It'll be over soon. Don't feel."

Finally, Mr. Pembrook relented. "That's sufficient. Get up." The head teacher swiftly untied their hands and let them get out of the position. Both subjects were a bit unsteady as they slowly stood up. Callen rubbed his shoulders, the relief mingling with the lingering ache, Subject Sixteen mirroring him.

Callen couldn't quite bring himself to meet the head teacher's eyes out of shame but found himself murmuring, "Sorry, sir. I'll do better."

Mr. Pembrook gave a curt nod. "See to it that you do, Seventeen." The head teacher smiled down at both subjects. "This is all for your own good. You're assets, and mission success is all that matters."

Both subjects nodded and said, "He who fails, dies."

For a moment, his memory then flickered to when he’d been forced to beat Sixteen after the teen  messed up during one of their Kill House training missions.

Back in the present, Sam's eyes flicked between both Callen and Bryers as Sam pieced the situation together. "Drona?" he clarified. "You were in the program too?"

Agent Bryers eyes widened in surprise. "You know about Drona, Agent Hanna?"

Sam dipped his head slightly. "A bit. Callen's shared some of his past with me, but it's not something we've talked about a whole lot."

"For good reason," he remarked. It hardly makes for polite dinner conversation.

"That's surprising," Bryers stated. "They've thrown the program firmly in the vault with all the other black ops they don't want to admit to."

He shot Agent Bryers a look. "It's a long story, but Sam has known about the program for a while now. We've had to deal with some fallout from it." Callen then turned to his partner. "Bryers was one of the subjects in my cohort back in Drona." Hopefully, that satisfies Sam. I just want to focus on work.

Sam nodded slowly. "Okay then. So, you wanted to discuss Nathan Chen?"

Agent Bryers nodded, his expression becoming more serious. "Yes. Nathan Chen is a potential key to understanding a larger network my team's been tracking. We've recently received intel that Chen might be involved in a more significant operation than initially thought. We believe he's linked to a major human trafficking ring."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Chen's still pretty young, a low-level player. How do you guys know he's connected to this ring?"

Agent Bryers took a deep breath, his expression growing more intense. "Chen's name came up in several encrypted messages and financial records. We believe he's acting as a middleman, possibly providing logistical support or acting as a liaison between different groups."

"That's a major leap from his previous activities," Callen noted, deciding to take a seat down on the couch. Chen's apparently making quite the name for himself.

"What's the connection between him and the ring?" Sam asked, taking a seat directly across from him. "And what do you need from us?"

"It seems Chen's been leveraging some of his street connections," the FBI agent said, following suit. "Specifically on the transport side of things." Bryers glanced between Callen and Sam. "I was hoping you guys could shed some light on a couple of things for us. You've crossed paths with him before."

He leaned forward slightly. "We've dealt with Chen a few times, but he's mainly been a low-level player. If he's moving up the ladder, that's new. His sister Lily is an easy way in if you're wanting to get into his circle."

"Those two are extremely close," Sam agreed. "And she's more than a little naive." He shot Callen a look. "Or there's his buddy Eric Huang."

They continued chatting for another half-hour or so, sharing everything that they knew about Chen's personality, methods, and social circle.

"Let us know if there's anything else we can do," Sam said, holding out his hand.

Agent Bryers nodded and took the offered hand. "Will do." The FBI agent then turned to Callen and shook his hand as well. "Thanks again."

After exchanging goodbyes, he and Sam watched Agent Bryers's car disappear before locking up and heading back to OSP to finish out the rest of their shift. They'd relayed what information they could; now it was up to the FBI to act on it.

Despite the constant hustle of the rest of their shift, he felt a certain heaviness settling in his chest. The unexpected encounter with Agent Bryers at the Boatshed earlier had caught him off guard and he still felt slightly unsettled.

As the day wound down, Callen noticed his adoptive mother making some tea, clearly intending to stay at the office a bit longer. Saying good night to the rest of the team, he decided to stop by her office before heading out.

"Mom," he said, knocking softly on the frame as he walked in. Callen's chosen form of address deliberately made it clear it was of a more personal nature.

"Callen," she greeted, gesturing to his usual chair in front of her desk. Hetty then took out a second cup, pouring each of them a drink.

Callen took a seat and accepted the cup of tea his adoptive mother held out to him. It was Darjeeling, one of his favourites.

"Thanks," Callen said, sitting down and accepting the cup of tea Hetty poured for him. His voice was steady but carried an undercurrent of emotion.

Hetty settled into her chair, her gaze steady but warm. "How are you, Callen? I understand today's events might have stirred up some unwanted memories."

Callen took a sip of the tea, savouring its warmth and the brief respite it provided. He wasn't remotely surprised that Hetty knew what he wanted to discuss. Callen exhaled. "Yeah, today was... unexpected." He looked across at Hetty, a question that had been nagging at him finally forming into words. "I've just… how come it took you so long to discover Pembrook's methods and abuse? I can't imagine it was easy for you to miss something like that."

Hetty's expression grew more serious, and she took a moment before responding. "It's a valid question." She sighed. "The truth is, maybe I didn't want to know. I should've asked more questions from the start. When things did raise questions, there was often some sort of viable explanation. It wasn't until you were arrested and I gained access to your medical records that I got a fuller picture of the situation."

He dipped his head slightly. "And that's when you confronted Pembrook."

"Yes," she confirmed. "They allowed me to remove you from the program at that point because of the fight put up, but those overseeing it weren't ready to give up on it so easily. Eventually, though, even they noticed a concerning pattern and had to admit it was causing more harm than good."

"Well, at least the program is over now," he replied, trying to find some solace in that fact. He took another sip of his tea. "I just… I just wish you'd rescued me sooner." Or didn't enroll me in the training program in the first place.

His adoptive mother's gaze softened with a mix of empathy and guilt. "I wish that too, son. And I'm so sorry that it took me so long to see the truth."

Unfortunately, the one thing you can't beat in this world is time. They couldn't go back in time to change things no matter how badly they wanted to. But maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Maybe it was a reminder of how far he'd come - and how much further he could still go.

Chapter 97: From Coffee to Crime

Callen's morning started with a couple of breakfast bagels with Anna before they both rushed to get ready for the workday. He felt quite well-rested, a result of a night spent indulging in some intense bedroom fun the night before. As Callen finished up, his cell phone buzzed with a text from Sam: 'ETA 2 minutes.'

He quickly moved to grab his badge, service weapon, and go-bag. Heading outside a moment later, Sam's black Challenger was parked in the driveway, his partner shaking his head in feigned exasperation.

"Morning, G," Sam said as Callen climbed into the passenger seat. "You know, if you're picking me up at 9, 8:50, I'm kerbside. I even texted you."

"I got caught up in something," he said dryly.

Sam grinned knowingly, pulling away from the driveway. "Uh-huh. More like you were up late last night drinking and having some fun with Anna."

He shook his head with a lopsided grin. "Oh, so now you're an expert on my late-night activities?" he fired back in jest.

"Just an educated guess," Sam replied with a smirk.

"Uh-huh," he said as Sam pulled into the street. He decided to turn the tables on Sam a little bit. "You know, I seem to remember you showing up looking a bit rough around the edges the other morning."

His partner chuckled, shaking his head. "No, see that was a critical mission to rewatch some classic action flicks. You know, for training and morale."

He chuckled. "Ah, of course. Sounds familiar. Remember when you told me to 'make a concerted effort to get some sleep' after I mentioned that '60s sci-fi movie about the cowboys and the dinosaurs?"

The former SEAL made a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head. "Touché, as Deeks would say."

On their way to the office, they stopped at one of their usual coffee places. Callen took a moment to text Kensi, asking if she or Deeks wanted anything. After picking up the coffee, they continued their drive to work.

Arriving at the OSP headquarters, Callen noticed the usual buzz of activity. Agents and support staff were running around and talking, Rountree and Castor were in the gym, working up a sweat, and Kensi and Deeks were on the couch in the bullpen.

"Good morning!" Callen called out as he and Sam walked up to them.

"Morning," the former SEAL echoed.

"Bring me a hot chocolate?" Kensi asked, eagerly turning to face the both of them.

"I sent you a text to see if you wanted in," Callen replied, not sure why she hadn't just said she wanted something when he'd asked.

"Really?" Kensi asked before she turned and shot her husband a mildly exasperated look. "Apparently, somebody didn't see the text."

Deeks held up Kensi's cell phone with a grin. "Guilty. But the update's almost done and then you won't have to worry about it."

His lips curled upwards into a playful grin. "I guess Deeks'll be on coffee duty for a while."

Kensi raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, you know it."

Deeks gave a mock salute. "Anything for you, Baby."

"Let's see how long that enthusiasm lasts," Sam quipped, taking a sip of his drink.

They chatted for a couple of more minutes and then Fatima appeared at the top of the stairs leading down to the bullpen. Her presence immediately shifted the atmosphere. "Hey, guys. We have a case."

Without preamble, the team rushed upstairs to the Operations Centre. About halfway up the stairs, Rountree caught up with them, a little breathless. They walked into the SCIF, Hetty immediately got their attention. The diminutive Operations Manager was already standing in the centre of the room, her expression a mixture of determination and concern. "If you would, please, Ms. Namazi."

Pulling three photo IDs up on the big screen, Fatima smiled although it was grim. "Early this morning, a truck heading for Pendleton was hijacked," she said. "The Marine driving, Corporal Jeffrey Moore, and the guy with him, Sergeant Gavin Park, were left by the roadside to die. A good samaritan, Chloé LaCasse, called it in."

As Callen discretely looked around at his team, he saw the anger and sadness etched into their faces. It was something that he understood all too well. He knew they didn't have time to dwell on it, though, so pushed his own emotions down.

"Corporal Moore was D.O.A," Fatima continued, "but Sergeant Park survived and is currently in theatre at Cedars-Sinai. He's critical but is expected to survive."

Callen nodded. "What were they carrying?" he asked, his interest piqued.

"Enough hardware to start a small war," Fatima remarked, and the five other agents exchanged worried glances at that news.

He raised an eyebrow indicating for Fatima to elaborate although he had a good idea of what the answer was. "M4 carbines, automatic and single shot grenade launchers with grenades and SAMs," the junior agent said. "Along with two sniper rifles."

Kensi let out a small sigh. "And all with the appropriate ammo, I assume."

"Unfortunately," Fatima confirmed.

"That's not good," Deeks said with a shake of the head.

"Indeed it is not," Hetty readily agreed.

"We need to get a handle on this quickly," he said, his tone terse. The idea that a truck filled with enough weapons to arm a small army had been stolen was troubling. If that arsenal fell into the wrong hands, the potential for loss of life was immense.

"Do we have any clue who the hijackers were?" Sam asked, not really expecting that to be the case.

Fatima shook her head. "Unfortunately, we don't. I started going through traffic cam footage, but haven't come up with anything useful yet. The location of the ambush doesn't have any cameras."

"Of course it doesn't," Rountree muttered. "That would be too easy."

"Which is why they chose it," he pointed out. That's just basic tradecraft. It also shows that they're skilled and know how to cover their tracks. That only makes it more urgent we find them before the weapons can be used.

Rountree nodded and then shrugged. "Maybe a store in the area has a camera?"

"I'm waiting to hear back from a few shops," Fatima explained, "but I haven't heard anything yet."

"Alright." Callen turned to face his team. "Rountree, Deeks, go to the hospital. See if there's any news on Sergeant Park. Sam and I'll head to the scene. Fatima, go speak with LaCasse. Kensi, work on that footage."

Both women nodded, heading over to the main computer station near the front of the room. He and Sam shared a glance before they followed Deeks and Rountree out the door and down the stairs.

They reached the car park out front, and Sam unlocked the doors with a quick press of the key fob. Sliding into the driver's seat, his partner started the car, the deep rumble filling the silence between them.

He settled into the passenger seat, his thoughts still on the recent hijacking. "Whoever planned this was meticulous. They knew the exact time and place to hit."

His partner nodded curtly, smoothly pulling out of the parking spot. "Yeah, this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing. They had insider information. Maybe even somebody on the inside helping 'em."

Callen exhaled. "And that's what worries me. If they have somebody on the inside, we could be dealing with a bigger threat than just one or two rogue players." He turned to Sam, his blue eyes narrowing with a mixture of concern and determination. "We could be dealing with a full-blown cell."

Sam glanced at him, his expression serious. "One that's very well armed."

They drove in silence for several moments, each lost in their own thoughts. The city blurred by as they headed toward the site of the hijacking. The stakes were high, and they both knew it.

When they arrived at the crime scene, it was already cordoned off by the LAPD, yellow tape fluttering in the breeze. The truck itself was still there; a large, battered shell that spoke volumes about the violence that had taken place earlier that morning. Officers milled about, collecting evidence and keeping the onlookers at bay.

He and Sam flashed their badges and introduced themselves to the officer in charge, a middle-aged sergeant who looked relieved to see them. "Agents, glad you're here," he greeted them. "It's a mess. We've been trying to piece together what happened, but there's not much to go on."

He surveyed the area. "Anything unusual before the hijacking?"

The sergeant shook his head. "Not that we've found, no. No witnesses, no traffic cams, and the area's industrial, so it's quiet this time of day."

Sam stepped closer to the truck, examining the bullet holes that peppered the sides. "These guys were professionals. Look at the patterns - tight grouping."

"They knew exactly where to shoot to disable the truck without risking the cargo," he remarked, running a hand along the cold metal of the truck's frame. "They were in and out quickly. It's too clean, too well-coordinated."

Sam nodded. "Yep. They ambushed, disabled, and took what they needed."

The sergeant nodded. "Yeah, and they left the driver and his partner to bleed out. No hesitation, no mercy."

"We need to figure out how they knew about this convoy," he remarked. "This kind of intel isn't easy to come by. Someone leaked it."

"We're gonna have to start questioning everyone involved in planning this shipment," Sam told the sergeant.

"Yeah," he agreed with a small nod. "We'll need to know who had access to the route, who knew the exact time and cargo, and anyone with any connection to either of the Marines involved."

"That's going to be a long list," the sergeant warned. "But we'll get you everything we have on the shipment."

His partner dipped his head slightly, "Thank you."

As they continued processing the scene, Callen's cell phone buzzed again. He glanced at it and saw a message from Kensi: 'Found something in surveillance footage from a nearby shop. Not much, but it's a lead.’

He showed the message to Sam, who nodded. "Sounds like Kensi's onto something. We should wrap up here and head back."

Callen agreed and they walked back to the black Challenger. He then called Ops, putting the call on speakerphone, hoping to get more information.

It turned out that, despite no traffic cameras covering the crime scene, a shop owner nearby had agreed to provide their surveillance footage. Sorting through the footage, a Black SVU was seen following the truck a block away from the scene. A few minutes later, the same vehicle was captured speeding on a traffic camera. It was registered to Michael Turner, who had a history of minor offences but no known connections to arms dealing. The man was last reported to live in a residential area just a few blocks from where everything went down.

They tried Turner's last known address, but the place had seemingly been abandoned. Sam suggested they head back to OSP, and Callen agreed, but something nagged at him as they drove to the office. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something - something big. The planning, the precision, the cold-blooded execution… it all pointed to a much larger operation. Who's behind this?

Chapter 98: The Hand on the Tiller

Back at the Office of Special Projects, tension hung in the air. Callen and Sam moved quickly through the building, their focus razor-sharp. As they walked into the bullpen, the energy was palpable. Rountree was at his desk, reviewing surveillance footage, while Deeks was wrapping up a call with an LAPD contact.

"Got something?" he asked, heading straight for Rountree's monitor.

Rountree nodded and quickly pulled up the footage. "That SUV we traced to Michael Turner's place? Well, it showed up again near an abandoned warehouse on 7th Street. There was another car with it - no plates or registration yet." The junior agent leaned closer to the screen, his expression determined. "But we're still digging."

Deeks, hanging up his phone, chimed in. "So, LAPD dug into the warehouse and found out it's leased by a shell company. The owner, Elias Schäfer, is a businessman in bed with some pretty hardcore right-wing German groups. Ex-Navy and has been dealing weapons internationally for the past six years."

Sam's expression hardened as he processed the information. "So, Schäfer has ties to extremist groups and the warehouse is a front for their operations."

"This just got a lot more serious," Rountree said grimly.

He nodded in agreement, his mind racing with the implications. "We need to move fast and secure that warehouse before they can make another move." Callen then shot his partner a pointed look. "We also need to loop in the FBI, ATF, DHS, and Interpol."

Sam nodded, already pulling out his phone. "It's a political hot potato."

"Yeah," he agreed with a small nod. "I'll go brief Hetty. Get ready to go tactical."

He headed towards Hetty's office. She was seated at her desk, reviewing files with her usual focus. Callen approached her, his expression serious. "Hetty," he greeted.

"Mr. Callen," his adoptive mother replied, closing the folder she was reading and giving him her undivided attention.

"We linked a warehouse on 7th Street to a guy named Michael Turner," Callen explained. Turns out Elias Schäfer is leasing the place. He's former Deutsche Marine and is associated with a bunch of extreme-right German groups."

"Bugger," the operations manager replied, her eyebrows furrowing slightly in concern. "This certainly complicates matters more than either of us would like."

He nodded, fully aware of the political complexities of the situation. "Yeah. We need to move fast and secure that warehouse. We're heading out shortly. I'm going to brief the FBI, ATF, DHS, and Interpol."

"I see," she said with a curt nod. "Given the optics and the international connections, it's crucial that we give them no reason to muddy the waters. I'll handle the briefing with the other three and four letter agencies. You focus on the raid."

He gave his adoptive mother a small nod. In moments like this, he could almost hear Pembrook's voice echoing in his head, reminding him of the unrelenting demands and the need to succeed at any cost.

Hetty paused, her gaze lingering on him. "It's times like these that remind me of how much responsibility falls on the shoulders of those in leadership. You've always been a steady hand, Callen. An important quality when your hand's on the tiller."

"Thanks," he replied, catching the subtle message and shift in her tone.

Is she really considering stepping down soon? The prospect used to absolutely terrify him, but now... maybe not. Years ago, he couldn't imagine leading without her steady hand guiding him, but then she'd gone to Syria and so much changed. If it came down to it, he'd step up… And having a newborn would make it a decent time to step out of the field. So much of him was her, though, and it would be bittersweet seeing her step down permanently. He understood why retirement would be tempting at this stage of her life and wouldn't begrudge her that.

"Good," the operations manager replied with a nod. "Now go. Secure that warehouse. I'll handle our friends in the other agencies."

Callen gave her a final nod of acknowledgment before turning on his heel and heading back to the bullpen, where his team was already in motion, preparing for the raid. The urgency in the air was palpable as they gathered their tactical gear and went over the tentative plans for the breach.

He turned to the group, his tone sharpening. "Remember, Schäfer's ex-military, which means he's trained, organized. We go in hard and fast. No hesitation."

Deeks nodded, the blond's expression serious. "Got it."

Rountree finished adjusting his kevlar vest, his eyes steady. "What about Schäfer? Are we prioritizing the takedown or the intel?"

"If we can take him alive, we do it," the former SEAL replied firmly. "Schäfer's the key to the bigger picture."

He turned towards Rountree. "But don't take any unnecessary risks," Callen remarked pointedly. "The moment things go sideways, you neutralize any threat."

The younger man gave a small nod in acknowledgement. "Got it."

Callen quickly finished securing his tactical gear and then met each of his field team's eyes in turn. "Alright, let's do this."

As the team piled into the vehicles, the adrenaline surged through Callen's veins. The weight of their mission pressed on him, but he pushed it aside. This was what they trained for, what they excelled at. There was no point worrying about it; we have to just trust our training.

They approached the warehouse, the smell of oil and metal mingling with the cool evening air. Callen signalled for the team to get into positions, Deeks and Rountree covering the backdoor while Callen and Sam covered the front.

Standing just outside of the main entrance, Callen's heart pounded with anticipation. The tension was thick, an electric charge that promised action. "On my command," he said over their comms. "Three, two, one - execute!"

They burst through the door, weapons raised, scanning the dark interior. The sudden illumination from their tactical flashlights cut through the shadows, revealing stacks of wooden crates and a few scattered workbenches. The space was eerily quiet, save for the distant sound of dripping water.

"Clear!" Rountree announced over their comms.

Sam moved in next to Callen, peering around a large wooden crate. "You think they're tipped off?" he asked Sam, keeping his voice low.

"Let's hope not," Sam replied. "Stay sharp."

With a nod, Callen led the way deeper into the warehouse, his body on high alert. The lessons from his time in Drona as a kid, harsh as they were, had honed his instincts, making him a creature of action in moments like this. The ensuing decades working as an operator and agent had only served to cement it.

Suddenly, a faint noise caught his attention - muffled chatting coming from a room in the back. Callen raised his hand up in a fist, signalling Sam to freeze. He then brought his fingers to his lips, requesting silence, and pointed to the door. Callen then pointed to himself, cupped his hand and patted his head, indicating that he would cover Sam. Callen then pointed at his partner and made a forward-pushing motion with his palm, signalling for Sam to be the breacher.

His partner nodded, understanding the plan, and Callen took up a position to cover the former SEAL's left flank. Sam held up three fingers, then quickly lowered them one by one. When he finally reached one, Sam kicked in the door.

As the door flung open, it splintered on its hinges, revealing a dimly lit room filled with crates and makeshift tables cluttered with firearms, ammunition, and what appeared to be blueprints. The chatter abruptly stopped as a group of men turned towards the intruders, surprise etched on their faces.

"NCIS! Hands where we can see them!" he shouted, his voice firm and authoritative as he stepped into the room, service weapon raised.

The four men froze, eyes wide with shock. One of the men, a burly figure with a thick beard, glanced at the others, his face hardening. "I'm not going back to jail!" the man growled, reaching for something tucked at his side.

"Don't even think about it!" Callen barked without missing a beat, tightening his grip on his service weapon as he did so.

At that moment, Sam moved in, his own service weapon drawn and aimed directly at the man's chest. "Put it down! Now!"

The atmosphere in the room crackled with tension as Callen and Sam held their ground, weapons trained on the group of men who were clearly on edge. The bearded man hesitated, eyes darting between his companions and the armed agents.

"Don't do anything stupid," Callen warned, his voice low and steady. "We're not here to negotiate. Just drop whatever you've got and step away from the table."

With a grunt of frustration, the bearded man raised his hands, revealing a small knife clutched in his grip, but he reluctantly tossed it aside. The other men followed suit, their expressions shifting from defiance to resignation.

As they moved towards the wall, one of the men lunged at Callen, surprising everyone in the room. The unexpected movement sent adrenaline coursing through his veins, igniting his instincts from years of training.

Callen reacted instantly as the attacker lunged at him, dodging the swing aimed at his face. The man's arm swung wildly toward Callen's face yet again, but the NCIS agent sidestepped smoothly, his body moving with precision. Instincts honed from his time in Drona and working as a field operative. The man came at him once more, even more aggressively, aiming a vicious punch toward Callen's ribs.

He blocked the strike with his forearm, immediately trapping the man's wrist. In one fluid motion, he twisted it, leveraging the attacker's momentum against him. The man let out a grunt of pain as Callen flipped him over his shoulder, slamming him into the concrete floor with a hard thud.

But the attacker was relentless. Gritting his teeth, he rolled back to his feet, reaching into his waistband to pull a knife. The blade gleamed in the dim light of the warehouse as he swung it toward Callen's midsection.

Callen's instincts flared as he reacted quickly, sidestepping the blade with just inches to spare. He deflected the attacker's arm with his own, bringing his elbow crashing into the man's face in a brutal strike. The blow staggered the man, blood trickling from his nose, but he wasn't down yet.

The man lunged again, this time trying to drive the blade downward in a vicious arc. Callen caught his wrist mid-air, twisting it sharply, forcing the attacker to drop the knife with a pained growl. The weapon clattered to the floor, but the fight was far from over. The attacker used his free hand to throw a wild punch toward Callen's jaw.

Callen ducked beneath the swing and drove a hard knee into the man's gut. The impact forced the air from the man's lungs, but he still didn't go down. Fueled by desperation, the attacker shoved Callen back, trying to regain his balance.

That's when Callen switched tactics, his mind flashing back to years of close-quarter combat drills. In one smooth motion, Callen used his own leg to shift the other guy's stance and grabbed his arm, sweeping the other man's leg out from under him and slamming the man into the stack of crates behind them.

This time, Callen didn't give him a chance to recover. As the attacker groaned on the floor, Callen moved swiftly, pinning him down with his knee pressed into the guy's back. Callen yanked the man's arm behind him and snapped on a pair of handcuffs, securing him with a satisfying click.

All of this happened in seconds, but Callen could feel his blood pumping, and adrenaline surging through his system. As he stood up, breathing slightly heavier, he cast a quick glance toward Sam. During the altercation, Sam had ensured that the other suspects didn't make any rash moves, keeping his weapon trained on them. The rest of the group were standing up against the wall, hands raised, not wanting to test things.

Deeks and Rountree entered the room just as the fight wrapped up. "Need some help, Callen?" Deeks inquired with a smirk, surveying the scene — one man cuffed on the floor, groaning, while the others stood wide-eyed in shock.

"All good," he replied with a short breath, his tone casual despite the intensity of the moment. He nudged the downed attacker with his boot, making sure he wasn't going to try anything else. "This one's handled."

Rountree moved to help Sam secure the other suspects while Deeks crouched down next to the man Callen had subdued. "Looks like you've had better days, pal."

The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at Deeks but saying nothing.

"Any of you want to try what he did?" Callen asked, his voice cool and calm, blue eyes scanning the remaining suspects. None of them moved. They understood the message loud and clear.

Securing the knife, Callen stepped forward, cautiously surveying the room. The clutter of weapons and ammunition was alarming. He glanced over at the blueprints scattered across the table, noting the markings that indicated various locations, including what appeared to be government buildings. His stomach twisted at the implications.

Callen motioned for Sam to come over, who quickly stepped beside him, his expression noticeably darkening as he took in the sight. "Yeah, they’re into more than just arms trafficking," he stated bluntly. "They’ve been planning something."

Deeks shot him an incredulous look as he gestured to the stuff scattered all over the table. “Uh, yeah, I’ll say.” 

And wasn't that a cheerful thought?

Chapter 99: Silent Battles

They spent the next several hours conducting various interrogations but not making any real progress. The weak link, whom Callen had managed to crack, apparently was kept largely out of the loop because the rest of the crew saw the same thing in him. The one name they did get was already in the wind when they showed up at his address.

To say they were frustrated would be an understatement. Eventually, they decided to call it a night and let the suspects stew. That sometimes had the benefit of loosening lips when they were faced with the full reality of their situation.

Getting dropped off at home, Callen tried to shake off the lingering frustration as he walked through the door, where Anna awaited him. She greeted him with a warm smile that quickly lifted his spirits. The couple then enjoyed a quiet dinner of Indian food together before moving to the couch, where they settled in to watch a World War II documentary on the History Channel while playing chess.

"Your move," Anna said, her brow furrowed in concentration.

He looked down at the board in feigned exasperation, then back at her. "I'm just trying to remember if you were this good last time."

"Or maybe you're just slipping," she shot back playfully, grinning cheekily at him.

"Uh-huh," he said with a matching look. "Like hell."

As the hours passed and the comforting sound of Anna's voice filled the room, Callen felt his stress begin to fade. Eventually, they turned off the TV and went to bed, the day's tension slipping away - or so he thought.

However, around four in the morning., Callen jolted awake, his heart racing as vivid memories of his recent captivity crashed over him like a tidal wave. In the nightmare, he was trapped again - dark room, drugged, and being beaten. Callen could feel the weight of his restraints, the panic rising as he fought against the drug-induced fog in his brain as they questioned him before hurting him again.

Breathing heavily, he looked around the dark room, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. Callen turned his head to see Anna sleeping peacefully beside him, her rhythmic breathing a soothing presence in the otherwise quiet space. He then took a moment to gather himself, allowing her steady breaths to anchor him to the present.

Callen carefully got up out of bed, grabbed a glass of water, and tried to pull himself together somewhat. After a few minutes, he made his way back to bed, knowing that he should at least try to get a bit more sleep.

Callen didn't get much more sleep at all, but eventually, Anna's phone alarm went off and the pair started their morning routine.

The next morning, the sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Callen had barely slept after the nightmare, his mind still caught in the haze of memories. He moved robotically through his morning routine, brushing his teeth and pulling on his clothes, all while Anna hummed softly in the background as she made coffee.

Anna, ever perceptive, caught his distant gaze as they sat down for breakfast. "Rough night?" she asked gently, setting a mug of coffee in front of him.

Callen nodded, but his eyes were far away. "Yeah... just couldn't sleep."

She took a seat across from him, her brows knitting in concern. "Want to talk about it?"

He considered it for a moment, the offer hanging in the air between them. The weight of his captivity, the endless questions, and the physical and mental torment he endured were still too raw to put into words. He appreciated Anna's understanding, though. She didn't push him to talk when he wasn't ready, but her patience was always there, waiting.

"Not yet," he replied quietly, reaching for her hand across the table. "But thanks."

Anna gave his hand a squeeze, her warm smile telling him she understood. "Whenever you're ready."

The moment passed, and after a quick breakfast, Callen and Anna parted ways - she headed to the range for a training session, while Callen made his way to the Office of Special Projects. Despite the lingering exhaustion, the mission wasn't over, and they had a new lead to chase down.

When Callen walked into the bullpen, the usual buzz of early morning activity was already underway. Sam, leaning casually against Rountree's desk, looked up and gave Callen a knowing nod but didn't push. Deeks was at the coffee machine with Kensi, talking about their latest home renovation project, their voices carrying the lightness of people who hadn't spent the previous night chasing dangerous suspects.

"Morning," Callen greeted them, his tone neutral as he grabbed a cup of coffee. Sam noticed the slight edge in his partner's voice, but he didn't mention it. Callen was good at hiding the toll of sleepless nights, and Sam knew better than to push.

"Morning," Sam replied, sipping his own coffee. "Rountree was just filling me in on his weekend - apparently, he got talked into going to an escape room."

Rountree shot a mock glare at Sam, shaking his head with a smile. "Let me tell you, getting locked in a room with a bunch of overly competitive friends for an hour isn't as fun as it sounds."

Deeks, never one to miss an opportunity, chimed in from the coffee machine. "You see, this is why I avoid those things. Kensi would probably just break down the door before I even had a chance to solve a puzzle. It'd be embarrassing."

Kensi smirked, nudging him playfully. "At least I'd get us out."

The conversation moved easily between them, the kind of banter that provided a brief sense of normalcy amid their chaotic lives. Callen listened, letting their words drift over him, but his mind was still running on the events of the previous night - the failed interrogation, the nightmare that jolted him awake. He was used to operating on little sleep, though, and he pushed the thoughts aside for now.

As he sipped his coffee, Hetty entered the bullpen with her usual poise, immediately commanding the group's attention. "Good morning, everyone," she greeted, her tone businesslike but warm. "I trust everyone is ready to dive back into the Schäfer case."

"Always," Callen confirmed without missing a beat. He turned to his team and started to issue their orders. "Kensi, I want you to keep running down the lead on the name we got from Embree - Jason Fortier. He's in the wind but maybe he'll slip up."

"Wouldn't that be nice," Kensi quipped.

"Yeah," he agreed. Callen then turned to Fatima. "And, Fatima, I want you to look into the employees of the buildings being targeted. Maybe there's an inside man."

The junior agent nodded her understanding.

He turned towards Deeks and Rountree. "Deeks and Rountree, you two look into the finances of everyone we brought in yesterday." He turned to his partner. "Sam and I are going back into interrogation."

And with that, the team dispersed to handle their respective tasks.

As Callen and Sam walked into the Boatshed their way toward the interrogation room, a heavy silence fell between them. Sam glanced sideways at his partner, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the slightly pinched expression that hadn't left his face since they'd gathered in the bullpen.

"You good?" Sam asked, his tone casual but his eyes betraying a hint of concern. They were alone now, and he was willing to push a little more now that they had some privacy.

He didn't meet his gaze, instead focusing on the file in his hands. "Yeah," he muttered, though they both knew that wasn't the whole truth. After all the years of partnership, Sam could read Callen better than anyone. He always kept things tight to his chest, especially when it came to his personal demons, but Sam knew better than to push too hard unless it became a problem in the field.

"Look, I know this Schäfer thing's a pain," his partner said, deciding to stick to one of the more immediate issues. "But we'll sort it. Eventually."

He let out a small, humourless chuckle. "Patience is running thin," he replied. "We're running out of time, and I don't like where this is headed."

Sam's expression hardened as he nodded. "We went too soft on them yesterday."

He nodded curtly, agreeing. "Time to turn up the heat."

Chapter 100: 255 East Temple Street

The days dragged on, each one blending into the next as the case against went cold. Kensi and Fatima chased down leads that vanished like smoke, and the financial records they dug through turned up nothing substantial. Callen and Sam returned to the interrogation room day after day, grilling the suspects they had brought in, but the pressure tactics that had worked in the past fell flat. The suspects were more tight-lipped than ever, their bravado growing slightly as they realized the team was growing increasingly desperate.

And now, the trial was approaching. The pressure was mounting on all sides. A shadow seemed to hang over Callen, threatening to unravel everything he'd worked for. Sam quickly noticed the change in him - a slight edge in his demeanour, a subtle hesitation that had become more frequent. As they shared a quiet moment up in the Ops Centre, his partner couldn't help but ask, Sam's voice low but sharp with concern. "You good, G?"

Callen paused, glancing up at the former Navy SEAL. The weight of the question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. For a moment, Callen didn't respond, his gaze distant. Finally, he exhaled slowly, and forced a smile. "Yeah, brother, I'm good."

Sam studied him for a beat, his eyes narrowing slightly as he caught the forced smile. He could see right through it - his partner might have said he was fine, but Sam knew better. Sam had seen that look too many times before. The former SEAL leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he gave Callen a pointed look. "Alright. Look, man, I get it. The trial's coming up, things are getting tight. Just don't forget to breathe."

The next couple of days felt like they passed by in a haze of tension and anticipation. The trial was getting closer, and the pressure was building. But the team had Callen's back without question, just like always. They'd been through worse, and they knew how to handle it - though it didn't make things any less frustrating. The ongoing mission to bring Schäfer and his crew to justice was starting to collide with Callen's personal life.

The final pieces of the puzzle were out there somewhere. All they had to do was find them before the storm broke loose.

Finally, the day of the actual trial arrived, the large courtroom buzzing with energy and tension. Callen sat in the front row behind the prosecutor, Matthew Ogilvie, of the U.S. Attorney's Office. The man was quickly organizing his notes and occasionally glancing over at the defendant's table. Callen's heart raced as he took in the sight of his captors across the room.

They were dressed in suits, their expressions a mix of arrogance and indifference, as if the gravity of their actions had yet to reach them. One of them, a rather burly man, caught Callen's gaze. A chill ran down his spine as their eyes locked for a moment. The man had been the primary interrogator when he was captive. He breathed steadily, glaring at Jin Liu, determined to hide the fact that his stomach was twisting at the memory of the terror and pain they'd inflicted on him. Jin Liu had a calm, collected demeanour as if the upcoming testimony meant nothing to him. He met Callen's stare with a subtle smirk, one that seemed to mock everything Callen had endured.

To Callen's right, Nate leaned in slightly, his presence offering an unspoken sense of calm. The psychologist had a way of grounding people, his steady demeanour a rare comfort in moments like this. "You're gonna get through this, Callen," Nate murmured, his voice low but firm. "You've faced worse."

Callen gave a small nod, but his eyes stayed locked on the front of the courtroom, his mind still buzzing. "Yeah. Just ready for this to be over."

Nate offered a brief, knowing glance. "I hear you. But remember, you've been through tough situations before. This is just another obstacle. We'll get through it." The man's hand then rested briefly on Callen's shoulder.

Unfortunately, Callen could only have one support person with him, so his wife sat in the row behind him, flanked by Kensi, Fatima, and Rountree. She was there in case she needed to step out due to her pregnancy. Deeks, Sam, and Hetty were all being called to testify and, as a result, couldn't be in the courtroom with him.

The trial began with the usual formalities, the judge, Andrew Guilford, starting the proceedings as each side got ready to finally present their opening arguments. The judge instructed the jury to avoid watching or reading news pertaining to the case and reminded them of the gag order that was in effect due to the case's connection to the Office of Special Projects. They'd all signed an NDA - or Non-Disclosure Agreement - when brought in for voir dire.

As the prosecutor rose to his feet, he addressed the court with calm authority. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Ogilvie began, his voice cutting through the heavy silence, "the case we present today is not just about the actions of a few men. It is about justice, about ensuring that those who prey on our nation and its people are held accountable."

Callen's attention shifted momentarily as Ogilvie spoke, but his mind was still on the faces across the room. He could feel the weight of their glares, but Callen kept his expression neutral, refusing to let them see the vulnerability they had once exploited.

The prosecutor started first, outlining the charges against the accused - kidnapping, torture, conspiracy, and multiple counts of attempted espionage. He emphasized how the defendants had carefully planned and executed the abduction of a United States federal agent, holding him against his will while torturing him.

The defence attorney, a sharp-looking woman named Rebecca Devereux, rose next. She gave a brief but precise statement, claiming that that her clients were merely businessmen visiting the city and successfully implying that Callen had made false IDs due to stress. The defence attorney's arguments were a feeble attempt at discrediting Callen's testimony, but the woman delivered them with the kind of polished confidence that made the room uneasy.

As the defence attorney spoke, he could feel his blood beginning to boil. Her words, smooth and calculated, twisted the truth in ways that made his stomach churn. The implication that he was lying, didn't know what he had gone through, felt like an insult to everything he'd endured. Especially in light of his history of repressed memories. But this… no, he knew what happened.

He clenched his fists in his lap, trying to steady his breath. Focus, G. Stay in control. Don't react. His mind reminded him of the importance of not reacting, especially not in front of the jury. He couldn't afford to show the defendants any satisfaction by letting their words get under his skin. Still, it was harder than it sounded.

As Rebecca Devereux continued her opening remarks, her tone shifted to one of subtle condescension. She painted Callen as a man pushed to the brink by the pressures of his job, his judgment clouded by trauma. The woman's words felt like needles, each one threatening to prick at Callen's carefully maintained composure.

Nate's hand gently touched his arm, a quiet reminder of her presence. He didn't glance the other man's way, but the small gesture grounded him.

"Now," Devereux concluded, with a measured sweep of her gaze across the jury, "the prosecution will rely on Agent Callen's testimony, but we ask you to consider the possibility that memory can be flawed. While Agent Callen's dedication to his country is unquestionable, even the most reliable individuals can be mistaken, especially under stress. This case is not about intent, but about mistaken identity, based on unreliable recollection. As we present the evidence, we will show that the charges against my client rest on the fragile foundation of a traumatized mind."

Callen forced his jaw to relax as she sat down, a satisfied expression on her face. Mistaken identity? Fragile mind? He suppressed a bitter laugh. She didn't know the half of it. He wasn't fragile and he most certainly wasn't mistaken.

The judge's voice broke the silence. "The prosecution may call its first witness."

Matthew Ogilvie stood, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease. "The prosecution calls Special Agent Grigori Callen to the stand."

The room seemed to shift its focus all at once. Callen inhaled deeply and stood, the creak of the wooden floor beneath him amplified in the hushed courtroom. Each step he took toward the witness stand felt deliberate and measured. The weight of every gaze in the room bore down on him - some curious, some skeptical.

He took his seat, placing his hand on the Bible as the clerk administered the oath. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"I do," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the roiling tension inside him.

The federal prosecutor wasted no time, approaching the stand with a calm but focused energy. "Agent Callen," he asked, "can you please state your name and position for the court?"

"Grigori Callen," he replied, knowing he was expected to say his full legal name. "I'm a senior field agent with NCIS's Office of Special Projects."

"Thank you," the prosecutor said. "Now, Agent Callen, let's start with the day of your abduction. Can you walk the court through the events that led to your capture?"

He drew in a slow, measured breath, and began.

Chapter 101: The Burden of Proof

The courtroom was eerily quiet as Callen took the stand, the weight of the moment settling around him. His hands rested on the wooden surface of the witness stand, fingers slightly curled, betraying the tension in his body. His eyes remained steady, though the memories of his abduction and the pain he had endured threatened to resurface. Still, he kept his composure. This wasn't about him; it was about justice.

Matthew Ogilvie, the prosecutor, rose from his seat, a look of determination on his face. "Agent Callen," he began, his voice calm but firm. "Could you please walk the court through the events that led to your abduction?"

Callen nodded, his throat tight but his voice steady. "I was on a morning run in Griffith Park. I had been training for a while, trying to clear my head. I noticed there were quite a few people around, more than usual for that time of day. At first, I didn't think much of it. Eventually, I realized something was wrong."

He paused, his eyes locking on the defence table, where Jin Liu sat with his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. Callen's heart thudded in his chest, but he didn't let the emotion show.

"They were too many for them to be just random joggers," Callen continued, his voice steady but the memories surfacing beneath the surface. "I quickly turned onto a quieter street, hoping to lose 'em. But that's when they came at me. Three of them. They boxed me in." His jaw clenched as the scene replayed in his mind. "I fought back, but they were faster. During the altercation, one of them managed to inject me with a sedative."

The room seemed to hold its breath as Callen's voice steadied. "When I woke up, I was tied to a chair in a warehouse. No windows. No idea where I was. And then he came in." He paused again, this time turning his gaze directly to Jin Liu. "Jin Liu. He was the one who interrogated me. He asked about Operation Blizzard."

The silence was thick, only broken by the sound of Ogilvie's voice as he prompted, "And what did you tell them, Agent Callen?"

Callen's voice was unwavering. "Nothing. I didn't give them anything. I kept my training in mind. I knew what they were after. I knew how far they'd go."

Ogilvie stepped forward, placing a hand on the edge of the stand. "And did they use any physical or psychological methods to try and break you?"

Callen met his eyes, unflinching. "Yes. They drugged me. Tried to wear me down physically. But they didn't break me. They couldn't." He straightened up, his resolve palpable. "I was trained to resist interrogation. To hold on to whatever I could."

The prosecutor nodded. "And do you see the men who abducted and tortured you here in the courtroom today?"

"Yes," he confirmed with a small nod. "All the defendants."

"Thank you," Ogilvie said as with a slight dip of the head. He then turned and took a seat back down at the prosecution table.

Without preamble, the defence attorney, Rebecca Devereux, stood, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she approached the stand with a calculated air.

"Agent Callen," she began smoothly, "you've said that they didn't break you, but isn't it true that you've had difficulty remembering events from that time? Isn't it true that your memory can sometimes be... unreliable?"

Callen's jaw clenched. "My memory is fine," he replied coolly.

Devereux didn't back down. "But you've admitted to having repressed memories in the past. Isn't it possible that the stress and trauma of being abducted clouded your recollection of the events surrounding your abduction and captivity?"

Callen's eyes narrowed. "No. What happened in that warehouse is clear in my mind. You can question my memory all you want, but I remember everything that matters. I know what happened, and I know who was responsible."

Devereux smiled a cold, professional smile. "I'm sure you do, Agent Callen. But even the most reliable individuals can sometimes misremember events under extreme stress, can't they? Especially when drugged."

Callen's fist clenched beneath the witness stand. He took a deep breath before speaking. "I'm not misremembering anything. I'm not lying. You can try and discredit me all you want, but it won't change the truth. And as for the specific drug they gave me, it makes you more susceptible to answering questions, which only works if you're actually aware of what you're being asked."

The defence attorney's smile faltered for a moment before she turned back to the jury, her voice sweet with suggestion. "The prosecution's case is built on the fragile foundation of Agent Callen's memory. A memory that may be distorted by trauma and drugs. We ask that you consider that possibility as you deliberate."

The prosecution objected to the last comment as Callen spoke.

Callen held her gaze, his voice low but unwavering. "The only thing that's fragile here is your argument."

The tension in the room was palpable as Devereux returned to her seat, and Callen took a moment to steady his breathing. He had said what needed to be said. Now it was out of his hands.

As the courtroom proceedings moved forward, a heavy silence seemed to settle in the air. The tension was palpable as each witness took the stand, but there was something different about the next one to be called.

"Detective Deeks," Ogilvie began, his voice both professional and commanding, "can you tell us about your involvement in the investigation of Agent Callen's disappearance?"

"When Agent Callen went missing," Deeks began, his voice steady but carrying an edge of frustration, "our first move was to comb through every piece of security footage available. We traced his last known movements. We contacted local hospitals and reached out to every possible source in an attempt to track him down. We didn't stop. We couldn't afford to."

He paused briefly as if reliving the days of frantic searching. His eyes met Callen's for a moment, a silent connection passing between them - Deeks had never truly given up hope.

"We also reached out to other agencies and contacted international law enforcement. We were looking for anything. Anything that could give us a clue where he was. We even called in favours from contacts who owed us, hoping to get a lead that would put us on the right track." Deeks shook his head, a tight breath escaping him. "But days went by. No sign. Nothing."

The prosecutor nodded, letting the weight of Deeks's words settle in. "Thank you, Detective. And after those days, when Agent Callen was finally located, what happened next?"

Deeks exhaled and lowered his gaze for a moment, fighting the lingering emotions. "When Callen was found, we acted fast. Sam got the call. We didn't waste any time. Every second mattered. I wasn't going to let anything - nothing - get in the way of bringing him back."

The prosector nodded and went back to the his, the defence attorney stepping forward now.

"Detective Deeks," the defence began, her voice sharp and calculated, "you've mentioned the urgency with which you and your team operated. But tell me, wasn't it true that, despite all of your efforts, Agent Callen's whereabouts remained unknown for days? Doesn't that speak to your team's failure to act effectively?"

Deeks's jaw tightened, but he held his ground. "We did everything we could. We didn't give up, and we never stopped looking." He indicated the accused. "But the suspects are good, and we were left with little to go on."

The defence attorney pressed further, attempting to chip away at his confidence, but Deeks remained steadfast. After what felt like an eternity, the defence attorney finally finished and sat back down, seemingly unsatisfied but unwilling to push any further.

Deeks exhaled deeply as he returned to his seat, wiping the sweat from his brow. The room felt a bit heavier now, but the next witness was already being called.

Sam's former broad frame filled the space, but there was a sombreness to him that didn't escape the jury. "Agent Hanna," Ogilvie began, "could you please tell us about the moment Agent Callen was located?"

Sam's voice was steady but held an edge of relief. "I got the call from Agent Callen himself. It was a payphone in Chinatown, and he was in bad shape. I couldn't waste a second. I immediately went to pick him up." Sam's eyes hardened as he continued. "I got there and he was battered, bruised, but alive. We exfilled as quickly as possible."

"How did he appear mentally when you found him?" Ogilvie asked.

Sam's jaw tightened. "He was... shaken. But Callen's Callen. I wasn't worried about him - just getting him out of there. There was a good chance his captors were still looking for him."

After Sam finished his testimony and cross-examination, Hetty was called to the stand. She moved with the measured grace that had become her trademark, but there was an air of concern about her as she stepped forward. "Ms. Lange," Ogilvie asked, "can you describe your involvement in Agent Callen's recovery?"

Hetty's voice was calm, though there was a subtle fierceness behind it. "As soon as Agent Callen was found, I took immediate action. I instructed our medical personnel to be on high alert. When Agent Hanna brought him in, it was apparent that while Agent Callen was fatigued, he was stable. Director Vance and I conducted a thorough debriefing to ensure that every detail was properly documented. Once that was completed, I made certain that Agent Callen received the necessary medical attention, both physical and psychological."

Her words resonated with authority, the room quieting as the team's matriarch spoke. The defence, of course, attempted to discredit Hetty as she had done with the others, questioning the efficiency of the recovery and casting doubt on the team's efforts. But Hetty's calm, unshakable demeanour never wavered. Her eyes remained steady, her voice unwavering as she responded to each question with every bit of the precision of the seasoned operator she was.

"Ms. Lange," the attorney pressed, "You're confident that Agent Callen received the care he needed immediately after his recovery, despite the lapses in your team's investigation before his location was confirmed, correct?"

Hetty didn't flinch, her gaze steady. "I am confident that we did everything we could to ensure his recovery, despite the difficulties we faced. Every resource was deployed to locate him as quickly as possible, and once found, we saw to his well-being with the utmost urgency."

Her voice never wavered, each word delivered with the kind of calm authority only Hetty Lange could command.

When Hetty's testimony concluded, the prosecution rested, and the courtroom seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. The defence, though, wasn't done. The tension hung in the air, but it was clear that the tide had begun to shift. Callen could feel it - things were shifting in their favour.

Chapter 102: Blood Ties, Court Lies

Callen felt a strange sense of detachment as Judge Guilford prepared to announce the recess for lunch. His mind had drifted far from the present, lost in the weight of the words being spoken around him. The defence had tried to undermine every bit of truth they had, using Callen as a pawn in a game he didn't want to play anymore.

The judge's stern voice cut through his thoughts. "The court will adjourn for lunch. We will reconvene in one hour," Judge Guilford announced, his gaze sweeping across the courtroom. His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the jury. "Members of the jury, as you have been instructed, you're to remain in seclusion during this recess. You are prohibited from leaving the courthouse or having any contact with anyone outside of the designated court officers."

With a final, commanding glance at the jury, the judge added, "Failure to comply will not be tolerated. Now, you will be escorted by court officers until we reconvene." With that, the judge slammed his gavel, signalling the start of the recess.

Callen could feel the tension lift for a brief moment as the room slowly started to empty. His team, still seated behind him, gathered their things. Sam gave him a quiet nod, a silent acknowledgment of the strain they had all been under. Hetty caught his eye from across the room, her expression unreadable.

Callen's gaze wandered to the defence table, where the opposing counsel huddled in whispered conversation. Then, his eyes locked with Jin Liu's for a brief, unsettling moment. The man sat there, calm as ever, as if he hadn't just orchestrated Callen's abduction and torture, as if he hadn't just tried to twist Callen's life into a lie for his own. He didn't know how the man slept at night.

As the courtroom began to empty, Callen stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him, his stomach churning at the thought of returning to the proceedings. The lies, the manipulation - it was all too much. Too draining.

"G?" Sam's voice was low, filled with concern as he approached. "You okay?"

Callen looked at his partner, but his mind was made up. He was done. He didn't need to sit there and listen to more of this. He wasn't required to return, and there was no reason to put himself through yet another round of lies by the defence or the less-than-comfortable silence of the courtroom.

"I'm not going back in," he stated, his voice firm, though there was a quiet exhaustion behind it. He wasn't even going to leave it up to debate.

Nate raised an eyebrow. "You sure about this?"

He nodded. "Yeah. There's no point. I've said what I need to say. The rest is… noise." He glanced around, noticing the attorneys already gathering their things to head out. "I'm done listening to these lies. They're not going to get the satisfaction of dragging me through another round of this."

Sam hesitated but gave a small nod. "Alright. I'll let Ogilvie know."

"Thanks," Callen muttered, the weight of the decision settling in. At this moment, the thought of sitting through another round of lies and mind games was too much. There was zero benefit, anyway. His role was done.

"For what it's worth," Nate remarked, "I think you made the right call."

Callen gave the Operational Psychologist a small smile. As his partner left to speak to Counsellor Ogilvie, Callen took a deep breath and turned, slipping out of the courtroom with Nate, Anna, Hetty, and the rest of the team right on his tail.

The small, nearby restaurant hummed with the quiet chatter of midday diners, a sharp contrast to the cold, sterile atmosphere of the courtroom. The team settled around a large table, their usual banter filling the air as they ordered their food. Sam, ever the talkative one, took the lead in the conversation, his voice light but concerned.

"You sure about this, man?" Rountree asked, glancing over at Callen. "Walking away from all that... not an easy choice."

Callen shrugged, pushing his glass of water around in slow circles. "I'm sure. I've had enough of being treated like a pawn. I did my part. The rest? It's not worth it."

Anna, sitting beside Callen, reached over and squeezed his right hand. Callen gave his wife a small, appreciative smile in return.

Rountree nodded sympathetically. "Alrighty then."

"Fair enough," Fatima said. "That was brutal."

Deeks, ever the optimist, raised his glass. "To stepping away from the madness," the blond said with a grin, though it didn't fully reach his eyes.

"To what Deeks said," his partner agreed, lifting his own drink in the air.

"I'll drink to that," Nate said, raising and taking a sip of his Coca-Cola.

Hetty dipped her head slightly. "And so shall I."

Soon, the conversation shifted to lighter topics. For now, they were all taking a break from the chaos that had consumed them, the noise of the outside world muted for just a moment.

After they finished lunch, the group headed out into the bright afternoon sun. Callen could already feel the pull of the weight on his shoulders - he wasn't free of this case yet but felt lighter than he had all day. It was nice.

The team eventually received the call that pulled them back into the storm.

"Looks like we're back at it," Sam said as he glanced at his phone screen.

The case was urgent, of course - something about a missing Navy contractor and a potential connection to an international arms deal. It wasn't the kind of situation you could ignore. Still, Callen felt a strange mixture of relief and lingering unease as he watched them all pile out of the restaurant, and headed for their cars. Their work wasn't done. They were back on the clock, ready to face whatever came next.

Callen wasn't headed back to the office, though. As the team dispersed, Callen turned toward Anna, his wife, who'd been quiet throughout lunch. Her presence was the one constant he found soothing amid the chaos.

"You okay?" she asked softly, her hand brushing against his arm.

Callen gave her a half-smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, just... tired. But I'm glad you're here."

Anna gave him a reassuring nod, her eyes searching his face. "Let's go home, then. Take a breather."

"Sounds good," he replied, pulling his wife in for a quick kiss.

Hours later, Callen had settled into a routine at home. It was quiet, too quiet, even with Anna bustling around. He thought about the case, and his choice to step away, but most of his mind was still tangled in thoughts of Jin Liu and how the man had orchestrated everything so carefully. How Jin Liu and his men had bested him.

His thoughts were interrupted when the doorbell rang, and Anna went to answer it. He didn't expect who stood at the door, though. Hetty, in her usual impeccable attire, stood just beyond the threshold, a faint, unreadable smile on her face.

"Mom?" Callen said, standing up from the couch, his brow furrowing slightly. Normally, she would call ahead if she were stopping by. She was always welcome, though.

Hetty dipped her head slightly. "Hello, Dear. I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, not at all," Anna said, stepping aside to let Hetty in. "Come on in." His wife tilted her head slightly. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No need, but thank you." Hetty's voice was soft but commanding as always, though laced with a touch of quiet affection. "What have you two been up to this afternoon?"

Hetty settled into the armchair, and the three of them chatted for a couple of minutes. As Anna's phone started vibrating, she politely excused herself. She poured herself a glass of iced tea and stepped out onto the back patio to take the call from her friend Emily, leaving Callen and Hetty alone in the living room.

Hetty gave him a faint smile, her fingers steepling as she leaned forward slightly. "Sar hakyares?" she inquired, slipping into Kalderash Romani now that they were alone. (How are you feeling?)

"Chi zhanav," he admitted, making the switch as well. "Chaches, me bash kamav te e kris si gáta aba." (I don't know. Honestly, I just want the trial to be over already.)

His adoptive mother's eyes softened as she listened to Callen's words, her fingers still resting lightly on her lap. "Zhanav. Kerdan so shai, shavéya. So kam pasil-pês pála si avral tumare vasta." (I know. You have done what you can, Son. What happens next is out of your hands.)

He gave her a small smile and nodded. "Va." His expression shifted slightly in curiosity a question crossed his mind. "Dále, kon sikadyas tut te des duma Rromanes? Tu nikad chi phendan mánge." He knew the Romani culture and language were closed practice. It had been hard for him to gain any resources to study the language at first and he's half-Romani. Gazhe or non-Romani people were generally discouraged from learning it, so there weren't really that many available. (Yeah. Mom, who taught you to speak Romani? You never told me.)

"Tiri dey but sikadyas man," Hetty explained. She smiled fondly at the memory of her late friend and former asset. (Your mother taught me a great deal.)

"Murri dey sikadyas tu?" he replied, slightly surprised even though he knew he really shouldn't be. He had known for a while that they had a history, that Hetty had been his birthmother's handler.

"Va, voi kerdas. Tha but kerdem buki ande Ivropa," she confirmed. "But sar tu." (Yes, she did. And I worked a lot in Europe. Much like you.)

He sat quietly, absorbing his adoptive mother's words. There was something soothing about hearing Hetty speak in Romani - his birthmother's language - something that made the world feel just a little bit less heavy. It was as if, at that moment, she was tying a part of his past to his present, making everything feel a bit more connected.

As for him, he loved how much easier the once foreign words had begun rolling off his tongue the more he practiced them. It was a language he should have grown up with, but one he'd had to relearn as a stranger.

He gave a little snort. "Va, but kerdem buki kothe." (Yeah, I worked there a lot.)

She chuckled and then pulled the conversation back away from work, telling him about an event he might want to check out. The San Francisco Bay Area had a twice-yearly event called "Kafana Balkan." There was Romani music, food and drink and served as an informal space to connect with the culture. A great opportunity for him to meet up with people and practice Rromanes.

As he'd learned while seeking the Lache Cercel and the Roma Swing Ensemble playing at Levitt Pavilion, the Romani community had a saying: "In a sea of non-Roma, a Romani person's only defence is his language." And that had proven that true time and time again throughout history.

During 500 years of chattel slavery, Roma use the language to create escape plans and find protection and safety. The Romani community was also one of two groups targeted in the Nazi's Final Solution during the Holocaust or Porraymos. Throughout a thousand years of oppression, it had been a means of safety for the community.

"Tu trubul te zhas kothe," Hetty remarked after she finished briefly explaining the event to him. (You should go to it.)

"Shai-vi," he replied, actually considering it even though he had never exactly been the most social person. It could be a chance to connect with a part of the past he'd had stolen from him, something that he'd always wanted. And the concert at Levitt Pavilion had been fun. A part of him was holding back, though, feeling a little like an imposter. "Núma chi zhanav. Nai chaches murri scena." (Maybe. But I don't know. It's not really my scene.)

She arched a brow. "De kana sas tut mai ekh scena, Callen?" Hetty countered, her tone lightly teasing yet pointed. Her gaze softened as she leaned back in the chair, Hetty's hands resting comfortably on the armrests. "Nitála shai-vi si vrama túke te probisares vareso nevo." (Since when have you ever had a scene, Callen? Although, perhaps it's time for you to try something new.)

He rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're probably right," he thought to himself. "Kam-dikhas." He tilted his head slightly, still smiling. "Aba dav duma e shib." (We'll see. I already speak the language.)

"Dikh, san gáta te zhas," she replied with a smirk. His adoptive mother then shot him a pointed look. "Zha. Thai kin neve tsáliya la aver paráshtuvyáke." (See, you're good to go. Go. And buy some new clothes for next Friday.)

He gave a small nod, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at her again after the comment about his clothing. "Mishto, kam-zhav." (Alright, I'll go.)

As Anna returned inside, the soft chime of the back door closing caught his attention. He turned, watching his wife walk back into the living room, her phone still in hand, but a relaxed smile on her face as she approached them.

"Everything okay?" Callen asked, his voice warm as he switched to English.

Anna nodded, slipping her phone into her pocket. "Yeah. Emily just had some updates on a project she's working on." She took a seat next to him on the couch, her gaze shifting briefly to Hetty. "So, what would you two like for dinner?"

Hetty stood up from her chair, brushing off her skirt. "I was just about to get started," she said with a slight smile. "Why don't you two relax? I'll take care of everything." She moved toward the kitchen, her movements graceful and purposeful, the rhythmic sounds of her preparing the meal filling the quiet space.

Anna, appreciative of Hetty's gesture, looked at Callen with a sigh of relief. "It's nice to have a night off," she murmured, leaning back against the cushions.

His adoptive mother's voice called out from the kitchen, light and casual, as she began chopping vegetables. "It's more than earned, Dear. It'll do you both some good."

The smell of dinner soon filled the house - the scent comforting. Hetty, as always, seemed to take control of the evening with her calm authority, and the atmosphere shifted from tense to peaceful.

The meal was simple but comforting: a homemade Romanian pork and potato stew bis adoptive mother had thrown together with skillful ease, served alongside some fresh bread and a salată de roșii or tomato salad.

They shared stories over the delicious meal, with laughter flowing more freely than it had in a couple of days. The earlier weight on his shoulders was gone, if only for a while, as he watched his wife and adoptive mother happily converse.

After dinner, they moved to the living room, settling into the cushions. Callen was just starting to feel the pull of fatigue when his cell phone vibrated, shattering the calm. He glanced down at the screen.

"It's Ogilvie," he muttered, excusing himself and stepping out to take the call. Once he was in the bedroom, he closed the door behind him. "Callen," he said, his tone shifting straight back to business.

"Hey, Callen!" came the voice on the other end, a sense of finality hanging in the air. "It's me. The jury's officially in deliberation."

Callen's jaw clenched, his stomach tight. He swallowed before replying, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. "Thanks. Keep me posted."

"You know I will," Ogilvie replied without missing a beat.

Callen hung up the phone, his gaze distant as he stared out the window, the weight of the next few days settling in once again. After a moment, Callen returned to the living room, his face still tight. Anna and Hetty noticed immediately.

"What's wrong?" Anna asked, her voice soft with concern.

"The jury's deliberating," he replied, his voice coming out steadier than he felt. "With any luck, the jury'll come back soon."

"You've done everything you could," Hetty gently reminded him.

Anna's expression shifted, understanding flickering in her eyes. She reached out, her hand gently finding his. "She's right. And it'll be okay, whatever happens."

He nodded, squeezing his wife's hand in return. "I know."

The three of them, in the calm of the living room, settled back into the cushions. The world outside might be a little uncertain at the moment, but for now, they had each other. Whatever happened next, he wouldn't be facing it alone.

Chapter 103: Turning the Page

The morning sun filtered gently through the windows of the Callen house as he sat at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. The aroma of pancakes and bacon filled the air, and Callen couldn't help but smile at the sight of Anna busy at the stove. She hummed softly, a peaceful warmth settling over their home.

"Breakfast is almost ready," Anna said, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. Her hands were steady, the pregnant glow about her impossible to ignore. The baby was due in just a few months, and the anticipation grew with every day that passed.

Callen nodded, his eyes softening as he watched her. "I can't wait," he replied, the words more than just about the meal. The thought of becoming a father - of having a family of his own, with Anna - still seemed surreal at times.

Before he could say anything else, the doorbell rang.

Anna turned off the stove and headed for the front door. Callen's attention followed her, and he rose to his feet, only to pause when he noticed the box in his wife's hands. She smiled as she brought it over to the table.

"Vyglyadit kak podarok," the blonde remarked in Russian, Anna's eyes twinkling as she eyed the package in her hands. (Looks like a gift.)

"Aga," Callen agreed in Russian. He raised a brow as he took the large package from his wife, his curiosity piqued. He read the address and name on the large box, quickly realizing that it was from Anna's cousin Elizaveta back in Moscow. (Yeah.)

Anna opened the box, and inside, nestled in soft tissue paper, was a beautiful knitted baby blanket, soft and cream-coloured, with delicate blue and pink threads woven in intricate patterns throughout.

"Looks like Liza knitted this herself," Anna said with an appreciative smile. Elizaveta had been big into knitting ever since her early teens and was pretty good at it.

Callen nodded, his heart warming at the gesture. The blanket would've taken a lot of time and effort for her to make. "We'll need to call and thank her."

"Let's do that now," she smiled, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "It's a decent time there. Then we'll eat breakfast."

He nodded with a smile. Callen then placed the blanket on the back of a nearby chair. "Sounds like a plan." He gestured to her empty cup. "You call, I'll refill?"

"Sure," she said before pulling out her cell phone.

After a brief phone call with Elizaveta, Callen and Anna enjoyed a quiet breakfast together. The sound of laughter and conversation filled their cozy kitchen, offering a brief escape from the looming weight of Callen's ongoing trial.

Callen dished up pancakes, eggs, and crispy bacon, setting the plates in front of Anna before taking a seat himself and chatting with his wife in between bites of food.

By the time Callen arrived at the office, his mind was clearer than it had been in weeks. The trial had been long, exhausting, and fraught with tense moments. But that morning, sitting with Anna, surrounded by love and the prospect of new beginnings, had given him a sense of calm.

As he entered the OSP office, the bustle of the team getting ready to head out into the field was a welcome distraction. He nodded at his partner, Deeks, and Rountree and Fatima as they gathered their gear. He was staying back at OSP with Kensi, as he was pretty sure he was going to have to run to court at some point.

Settling into his desk, Callen pulled up his case files and tried to lose himself in the details of a current investigation. He worked steadily, his mind flicking between the task at hand and the distant, ever-present pressure of the trial.

By a quarter to twelve, Callen was sitting in Hetty's office, chatting with her. He'd done what he could from the office and decided to steal a moment with his adoptive mother while he had the chance.

"Sar san ages?" she asked in Kalderash Romani as she closed the file that she had just finished reading. (How are you today?)

Callen gave her a small smile, replying in the same language. "Lasho sim, nayis. Thai tu?" (I'm good, thanks. And you?)

She returned the smile. "Mishti sim, nayis túke." (I'm well, thank you.)

“La Annáki vara bishaldas amênge ekh paketo," he shared, taking out his cell phone to quickly pull up a photograph of it. He really wanted to show the baby gift to her. “Ekh kapa la glátake.” (Anna's cousin sent us a package. A blanket for the baby.) 

Hetty tilted her head slightly as she examined the picture. "Si shukar," she said with a smile. "Kerdo vastesa, me gindisarav?" (It's beautiful. Handmade, I presume?)

Callen nodded, proceeding to tuck the cell phone back into his pocket. "Va. Laki vara e Elizaveta kerdas la. Voi shtrikol sorro vrama.” (Yeah. Her cousin Elizaveta made it. She knits all the time.)

"Voi kerdas but lashi buki," Hetty remarked, still smiling. Her expression then shifted slightly. "Tume dui alosardan ekh anav inke?" (She did a wonderful job. Have you two settled on a name yet?)

"Va," he replied with a playful smirk. "Núma chi phenav túke so alosardam." He arched a brow. "Si ekh rusicko anav, sargodi." (Yep. But I'm not telling you what we picked. It is a Russian name, though.)

The petite woman rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. "Mishto, me gindisarav te shai te azhukerav." (Alright, I suppose I can wait.)

Before Callen could reply, his cell phone started ringing. The sound sliced through the quiet hum of conversation, causing Callen to glance at the device with a growing sense of anticipation. His adoptive mother raised an eyebrow, her sharp, brown eyes already assessing the situation.

Callen answered quickly, his voice steady, but a flicker of something - nervous energy - lurked in his gut. "Callen."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before his lawyer's voice came through, calm but unmistakably tense. "Agent Callen, the jury has reached a verdict. Get here if you want to attend."

Callen froze, his heart momentarily stalling. The world seemed to narrow, the weight of those words sinking in as his gaze shifted toward Hetty. Her expression, though impassive, said it all - this was it. "I'm on my way," he said in English. He then spoke to his adoptive mother in Kalderash Romani. "Si vrama te zhas." (It's time to go.)

She nodded encouragingly at him. "Mishto, zhas." (Alright, let's go.)

Hetty stood, grabbed her things, and swiftly moved toward the elevator. Callen did the same, following closely behind. Callen's pulse quickened slightly as the elevator doors closed. Hetty's car was waiting for them down in the motorpool. She opened the door for him with a practiced calm, a gesture that always made him feel both grounded and safe since she'd taken him in at fifteen.

Callen climbed into the passenger seat and quickly buckled himself in, the silver car's engine soon roaring to life. He pulled his cell phone out just as Hetty pulled out of the motorpool. He typed in Russian quickly, his fingers steady despite the chaos swirling inside him. 'Присяжные вынесли вердикт. Я еду в суд, позвоню тебе позже.' He hit send, tucking the cell phone back into his pocket just as they merged onto the main road. (Jury's reached a verdict. Heading to court. I'll call you later.)

The words "I'll call you later" felt almost absurd, as though he would be able to speak to her calmly after all of this, as though he could settle the storm swirling in his chest. But this was it - the culmination of everything that had led to this point. The trial. The case. His life, now intertwined with the decisions of twelve strangers.

Hetty glanced over at him, her gaze soft, though her expression remained focused. "Tu kam-aves mishto, drago," she said, continuing to speak in Kalderash Romani. Her tone was firm and reassuring. (You'll be fine, Dear.)

He nodded. "Va, zhanav," he said, more to himself than to her. (Yeah, I know.)

The courthouse loomed into view, the large, imposing structure casting a shadow that seemed to stretch across the pavement. Hetty slowed the car as they approached the entrance, pulling into the reserved spot with practiced precision. They were met by the bustle of attorneys, clerks, and onlookers moving in and out, the air thick with anticipation.

Callen took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him. It was finally happening. Everything had been leading to this. The defendants - Jin Liu, Wei Zhang, Hao Wang, Jun Li, and Kai Chen - would soon know their fates. But the fear that had plagued Callen since he'd agreed to testify still lingered, gnawing at his gut. What if something went wrong? What if they walked free?

"Zhas, shavéya," Hetty said, her voice breaking through his spiral of thoughts. She was already out of the car, moving with purpose towards the courthouse's entrance. Callen followed, his steps heavy, but resolute. (Let's go, Son.)

Inside, the courtroom was as tense as he remembered it. The jury, seated in their box, appeared just as still as the rest of the room. The defence table was occupied by the five defendants, all of them looking strangely calm for men who had just gone through a trial. Their faces, however, told a very different story than their body language - stiff, controlled, but underneath that, Callen could sense their growing unease.

His eyes quickly swept over the courtroom, landing briefly on Nate's seat. He spotted Nate - who had been notified as well - near the middle of the row. Nate's eyes briefly met his before the long-time psychiatrist and friend gave him a small smile.

As Judge Guilford finally called the courtroom to order, a quiet murmur swept through the crowd. The weight of the moment hung in the air.

The court clerk then said, "Will the foreman of the jury please stand?"

The jury foreman quickly stood up as requested.

The judge turned and addressed the jury. "In the case of the United States V. Jin Liu et al. have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?"

"Yes, we have, Your Honour," the foreman replied, his voice steady but with a hint of the tension that had permeated the room.

Judge Guilford nodded. "And how do you find?"

The foreman cleared his throat, his eyes scanning the paper before he began reading the verdicts, one by one.

"Regarding the charges against Jin Liu," the foreman began, his voice echoing in the silence of the courtroom. "On the first count of Aggravated Kidnapping, we find the defendant guilty."

Callen's heart beat faster at the sound of those words, but he forced himself to remain composed, his eyes fixed on Liu. The man's face didn't flinch, but he saw the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. Jin Liu had been the one who'd held the most power over him during his captivity. And now, finally, justice was coming.

"On the second count of Torture," the jury foreman went on, "we find the defendant guilty."

The words hit like a hammer, each one carrying with it a sense of finality that Callen had been waiting for since the moment he'd been taken. The sense of vindication washed over him, but it was tempered by a coldness, the kind of satisfaction that could never fully heal the wounds.

"On the third count of Conspiracy to Commit Espionage," the jury foreman continued, "we find the defendant guilty."

Callen didn't look away, though it was hard not to let the moment take over. The jury's decision was as clear as it had been throughout the entire trial — these men were criminals. And their crimes were not just against him, but against the country, against everyone who had been caught in their web.

"On the fourth count of Espionage," the jury foreman went on, "we find the defendant guilty."

There was a slight stir in the courtroom as the audience absorbed the weight of the charge, but Callen held his breath, staring at Liu, who was still as stone. The silence between them was thick, the tension unbearable.

"On the fifth count of Illegal Detention of a U.S. Federal Agent," the jury foreman continued, "we find the defendant guilty."

The words rang through the courtroom like the tolling of a bell, each one adding more weight to the mounting pile of evidence that was finally being heard.

"On the sixth count of Conspiracy to Commit International Terrorism," the jury foreman pressed on, "we find the defendant guilty."

Callen didn't let his guard down. He knew there were still four more defendants to face, but hearing those words — "guilty" — reverberate so many times, it made something inside him feel like it could finally exhale.

"On the seventh count of Trafficking in Classified Information," the jury foreman continued, "we find the defendant guilty."

"On the eighth count of Illegal Surveillance," the jury foreman carried on, "we find the defendant guilty."

"On the ninth count of International Terrorism," the jury foreman continued, "we find the defendant guilty."

And with that, the jury foreman lowered the paper, his eyes meeting the judge's. He then handed that first verdict form to the court clerk.

The courtroom was silent for a beat, the enormity of the verdict settling over the room like a weight. His breath was steady, and he could feel the remaining tension leaving his body. The victory was a relief, but it wasn't over just yet. There were still the other defendants to deal with.

The judge nodded at the foreman and then turned to face the rest of the court. "The defendant, Jin Liu, will remain in custody until sentencing is determined. The court will now proceed with the verdicts for the remaining defendants."

Callen's stomach clenched, but he remained still, his eyes fixed on the judge as the names of the other defendants were called.

"Regarding the charges against Wei Zhang," the jury foreman read next. "On the first count of…"

The verdicts for Zhang were met with a similar air of finality, though there was no individual weight in each charge as there had been with Liu.

The same continued for Hao Wang, Jun Li, and Kai Chen. Each one was found guilty on all counts swiftly and efficiently, the verdicts read in rapid succession with little more than a brief pause for each. Callen felt himself relax more and more as he heard each guilty verdict get handed down. They were all going down, each one a part of the same network that had hurt so many.

Once that was over, Judge Guilford nodded and addressed the courtroom. "Members of the jury, on behalf of the court, I thank you for your service. You are dismissed." The judge turned toward the defence table and raised his gavel. "The defendants will be remanded to Metropolitan Detention Center where they will await sentencing." The judge raised his gavel. "This court is adjourned."

Callen smiled as the judge's gavel struck. The trial was over. He had finally gotten the justice he had been hoping for and he was a lot safer with them all behind bars.

He let out a quiet breath, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room one last time. The defendants were already being escorted out of the courtroom, their faces sporting various mixes of shock and annoyance.

He glanced up at the prosecution's table, where Counsellor Ogilvie was gathering his papers with quiet efficiency. Despite his composed demeanour, there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Nate stood up, his movements purposeful but calm.

"Justice served," Hetty murmured.

Callen nodded, his eyes distant for a moment before he turned to look at her. "It was a long time coming."

Ogilvie soon joined them, tucking a slim leather folder under his arm. "I'll request the maximum," the man assured them. "With the guilty verdicts on all counts, they won't be seeing the outside of a cell for a long, long time."

"Thanks," he replied, his tone measured.

"How are you feeling?" Nate inquired.

He gave a small shrug. "Relieved. Tired. Ready to put this behind me."

Nate nodded, his perceptive gaze lingering. "You've earned it."

He wordlessly nodded and the group began to make their way out of the building, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. As Hetty's Jaguar pulled away from the courthouse, he allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment, the rhythmic hum of the engine lulling him into a moment of peace.

Chapter 104: 'Tis the Season

Three weeks had passed since the trial, and Callen was still adjusting to the feeling of relief. The verdicts had brought some closure, but it had also taken a bit for the feeling of needing to look over his shoulder to begin to fade. But as the days passed, a sense of normalcy crept back into his life.

The team had slowly returned to business as usual. Callen had been cleared for fieldwork, though Hetty had kept him on lighter assignments, citing his need to rest. Between routine cases and preparing for the holidays, the pace at OSP had settled into something manageable.

Now, on Christmas Eve, Callen found himself staring at his desk, the soft glow of the office lights reflecting off the stack of files he'd just finished. He let out a quiet sigh and leaned back in his chair, glancing around the bullpen. It was unusually quiet. The others had all headed home for the holiday a few minutes ago, leaving Callen with a moment of calm before the holiday chaos hit.

He stood, grabbed his jacket, and glanced toward Hetty's office. He had a decent view of it from where he stood and smiled before walking over to her. His adoptive mother was sipping a cup of tea as he walked up.

Hetty looked up from her cup of tea and offered him a warm smile, the kind only she could give. "Ah, Callen," she said, setting her cup down delicately on its saucer. "I was beginning to think I'd have to escort you out myself. It is Christmas Eve, after all."

He chuckled, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. "Yeah, yeah. I just wanted to wrap a few things up before heading out. Figured you'd be doing the same."

Hetty raised an eyebrow, her tone playful. "Just finished myself. I've got somewhere to be tomorrow, as you well know."

He chuckled. "Just making sure. Anna's been baking like crazy, and Arkady's already claimed half the dessert table for himself. Tomorrow should be… interesting."

Hetty's smile grew, a rare warmth in her usually composed demeanour. "The Kolcheck family Christmas extravaganza. I can't imagine a better way to spend the day. Though I expect I'll need more tea after spending a few hours with your father-in-law."

"Join the club," Callen quipped, then his voice softened. "Still, it'll be nice to have you there. Holidays haven't exactly been big for me, but… I'm looking forward to it. To all of us being together."

Hetty's eyes softened, still smiling. "As am I, Dear."

They prattled on for a couple more minutes and then said their goodbyes. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Anna: 'On my way home. Be there soon.' He slid the device back into his pocket, grabbed the small bag of gifts that he'd stashed under his desk, and headed for the parking lot.

Sam, Aiden, Kamran and Nicole Dechamps were all coming over for Christmas dinner the following day, along with Arkady. It was Callen's first time hosting any sort of big holiday dinner, and Anna's as well. Anna had occasionally joined her cousins on her mom's side of the family and well… Callen had barely even acknowledged the holidays before he started with OSP and got dragged to holidays at the Hanna household.

And in his late teens, it had been a quiet affair - just him, Hetty, and Reggie. And that had been a huge change from the prior years of being left out and ignored by whatever so-called foster parents had "graciously" taken Callen in that holiday season. The odd foster parent had been decent but most had just made him want to bury his head in the sand until the holidays were over.

His mind went back to when he was thirteen. Callen stared out the window, the faint glow of the Christmas lights from the street casting soft reflections on the glass. He could almost hear the laughter of people celebrating in the distance, the muffled sound of a Christmas party downstairs at the foster family's house. But he was alone.

The sterile bedroom was silent except for the scratch of his pen across the paper. His academic homework from Drona was in front of him - math, science, English, Spanish and social studies exercises serving both to keep his mind sharp and as a distraction from the nagging sense of loneliness and rejection.

He shifted his hand, wincing as pain flared up his arm. It was still swollen from the last day of school before the Christmas holidays - the day his head teacher had sat down with him for another pain endurance lesson. The injury made it a bit difficult to grip the pen properly. Yet he kept writing, pushing through the pain, because that's what Drona had taught him to do. Endure.

Mr. Pembrook's voice echoed in his mind. "You will endure this, Seventeen. You must learn to live with it, to fight through it. Don't feel." The mallet had felt like it weighed a ton as it struck his hand over and over, not for the first time. One final lesson before Mr. Pembrook sent him home for the holidays; not that this place felt like home.

His foster family was downstairs, laughing and celebrating Christmas as a family, but he wasn't part of that. He was just the kid who didn't fit, a paycheque. He had never quite fit anywhere. Not in the Drona Project, where he was starting to realize he was only seen as a tool. And certainly not with any of his foster families. A few of them had tried, but in the end, he was always the outsider. He was an afterthought, a temporary guest who might be tolerated for a couple of weeks or months before being shuffled off to the next placement. The idea of family, of being wanted, was just a pipe dream he had given up ages ago.

Callen inhaled sharply, the coldness of the memory almost too much to bear. But in the next breath, he focused on the present, the life he'd managed to build. He wasn't that kid anymore, even if that was easy to forget at times. Hell, this year his sister and nephew were even going to be there.

The drive home was quiet, the city streets lined with twinkling lights and the occasional passerby bundled against the December chill. Callen's thoughts drifted to the past few weeks - the way Anna had been his anchor, her unwavering support grounding him during the trial. He thought of the baby, now just months away from entering their lives, and the future that seemed brighter than he'd ever allowed himself to imagine growing up in the cold welfare state.

When Callen finally pulled into the driveway, the warm glow of their home's Christmas lights greeted him. He stepped inside, the scent of pine and cinnamon swiftly wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. The Christmas tree that his wife had insisted on stood in the corner of the living room, its ornaments catching the light.

Anna was curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over her legs and a mug of tea in her hands. She looked up as he entered, a smile spreading across her face. "You're home," she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of relief and love.

Callen stepped toward the blonde, his heart full as he gazed down at the woman who had somehow become his everything. "I'm home," he echoed, walking over to her and leaning in to plant a kiss on her forehead. This - this moment, this life - was his now. And it was everything.

Chapter 105: Christmas Past, Mission Present

Christmas was full of laughter and chaos. The house was buzzing with people - Anna was in the kitchen, Arkady was drinking a little too much vodka and making everyone groan and laugh, and Jake was running around with endless energy. Sam, Kamran, Aiden, and DeChamps added their own brand of joy, while Alex it seemed had finally truly warmed back up to him, not just being pleasantly civil for Jake's sake. Callen, sitting back for a moment once everyone had headed home for the night, realized that this, right here, was what he'd wanted Christmas to feel like for so long.

The day after Christmas was quieter. He and Anna lingered around the house, enjoying the calm after the storm. The team was scattered, and the house was peaceful - which they were both completely content with after the chaos of the prior night. As pleasant as it had been, he and Anna both liked their space.

By Wednesday, the holiday lull had officially ended. He had to admit that though he was enjoying the break, he was also ready to return to work. He never was one for extended downtime and despite the lingering holiday haze, he felt the familiar pull of duty calling him back.

His wife had left early for her own job, and he was halfway through his morning coffee when Sam's text arrived: 'ETA 2 minutes.'

Grinning, he slipped on his jacket, grabbed his go-bag, and strapped on his shield and weapon. Callen then tucked his phone into his pocket before heading out the door.

Callen and Sam walked into the bullpen together, both still shaking off the lingering holiday haze, but with their minds already shifting into gear. The air was brisk and filled with the usual energy as Deeks, Kensi, and Rountree were gathered near Hetty's office, engaging in light conversation. There was laughter in the air, but the kind that signalled a job well done during the holiday downtime.

As they dropped their go-bags at their respective desks, Deeks was the first to look up, giving them both a sly grin. "Well, well, if it isn't the two Christmas party survivors." He waved an imaginary flag. "How long did it take? A couple of days to recover from all that holiday cheer?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but there was a teasing edge in his voice. "Always the joker, huh, Deeks?"

Kensi, leaning against her desk, raised an eyebrow at Sam. "I think that's Deeks' way of asking how long it took for you to miss work."

Callen shook his head, smirking as he set his go-bag down on his desk. "Try yesterday. The Christmas chaos was fun, but I'm more than ready to get back in the action."

Rountree, sitting on the edge of his desk with a large cup of coffee in hand, nodded in agreement. "I hear ya. That downtime felt too good for a little while, but I think we've all been itching to get back into it."

Just as Sam was about to respond, his adoptive mother walked over, Hetty's presence in the bullpen commanding immediate attention. The chatter instantly died down, and the team stood a little straighter, her sharp yet kind gaze flicking over each of them before finally settling on Callen.

"I trust you've all had a restful holiday?" she asked, her voice smooth and purposeful.

The team exchanged glances, Kensi breaking the silence. "Restful, yes. But I think we're all ready to get back to work."

Hetty's lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "Good. I've just been briefed on a case that requires immediate attention. You're needed upstairs." With that, she gave them a subtle nod, indicating that they needed to follow her.

The team walked up the main staircase, the quiet hum of the office filling the air as they made their way down the familiar hall. Callen's boots echoed softly, a steady rhythm that seemed almost out of place in the otherwise silent building. He couldn't help but feel a tinge of anticipation, a buzz in the air signalling that this wasn't going to be a typical day at the office.

As they entered the Operations Centre, the sight of Fatima standing in the middle of the room caught Callen's attention immediately. She was focused on her tablet, eyes scanning the screen with the precision of someone who was either deep in analysis or waiting for something crucial to pop up.

"Fatima," Callen said, his voice cutting through the tension. "You got something for us?"

Fatima looked up and smiled. "Welcome back, guys."

Fatima swiped her tablet, and the screen behind her flickered to life, displaying an image of a young man with dark, focused eyes and a sharp, calculated expression. His face was partially obscured by the shadow of a hood, but his intensity was unmistakable.

"This is Kwon Jae-hyun," Fatima announced, her voice carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "North Korean national, twenty years old. He entered the country a couple weeks ago using a forged South Korean passport and has been operating under the radar - until now." She tapped the screen, and a second image appeared - a crime scene photo of a man in a Navy officer's uniform slumped against a car, a bullet wound clean through his forehead. That's an execution shot. "Commander Alan Pierce," she continued. "Naval Intelligence. Worked in counterproliferation, specifically monitoring North Korean weapons programs."

Sam let out a low whistle. "That's a hard target."

"It's certainly bold," Callen readily agreed.

"It gets worse," Fatima said grimly. Another photo appeared—a second dead man, face down in an alley, blood pooling beneath him. The man was East Asian, lean, and athletic.

"This was our suspected killer," Fatima explained. "Kim Sung-ho. Also North Korean. High-level field operative; believed to be the one who assassinated Commander Pierce. Security footage places him near Pierce's car just minutes before the murder."

Kensi frowned. "So our case should've been about hunting Kim down. What happened?"

"Someone got to him first," Fatima said. "He was executed a few hours after Pierce was killed. One shot, clean and precise. We think Kwon Jae-hyun was sent to eliminate him."

Deeks crossed his arms. "So we've got a North Korean hitman sent here to kill a North Korean spy who killed a U.S. Naval officer?"

"Someone's cleaning up loose ends," Callen surmised.

"That's the working theory," Fatima confirmed. "Kim was likely assigned to take out Pierce, but Kwon was the cleanup crew. Either to silence him or to take over whatever mission he was working on."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the image of Kwon. "And we think he's still here?"

Fatima nodded, a flicker of something more tense flashing in her eyes. Another partial photo of him in the window of a shop is shown. "He spends most of his time laying low in a safe house, but he has made several trips to Koreatown Plaza."

Callen nodded. "So he's probably staying nearby."

Kensi straightened up, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the image. "We're dealing with someone who's been trained. No telling what we're up against, or how far his reach is."

Deeks shifted on his feet, glancing at them all. "Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us then."

Hetty nodded. "Indeed we do, Mr. Deeks. This man is connected to a larger network, and his mission here is far more than just a simple hit."

Callen nodded slowly, his attention still on the screen. But even as his team discussed tactics, something about the image - about Kwon's eyes - seemed to gnaw at the edge of his focus. He couldn't quite place it, but there was something in Kwon's expression, something about the way he carried himself, that seemed all too familiar. It was the same kind of cold calculation he had seen in himself at one point in his life, a long time ago.

His mind flashed back to memories he had long tried to bury. Cognitive tests, strange games, endless hours of conditioning. The Drona Project. He quickly shut the door on the thought before it could go further.

"Callen?" Sam's voice broke through his thoughts. "You good?"

He blinked, shaking his head slightly as though the motion could shake the memory loose. He wasn't that kid anymore. He wasn't. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said, doing his best to sound casual. "Just thinking."

"Right," Sam said, his eyes narrowing. "Let's get back to it. We need a solid plan. If we move fast, we might still have the element of surprise."

"Precisely," Hetty agreed. "But be careful. This man is dangerous. His training is far from conventional. And whatever it is he's after, it's worth more than just money." She turned to Callen and Sam. "I don't need to remind you of Lee Wuan Kai, do I?"

Both men responded with a slight, terse nod.

"No," Sam said, his voice serious. "No, you do not."

Chapter 106: The Hunter and the Hunted

The next few hours were a blur of action. The team moved quickly, splitting up to cover all possible angles of Kwon's operations, with the ever-present tension of tracking a man who was clearly no stranger to the shadows. The winter morning's chill had long passed as the day wore on, but the urgency in the air remained thick, almost suffocating.

Callen sat at his desk in the bullpen, his eyes fixed on the map of Koreatown Plaza they had pulled up on the plasm. The area where Kwon was last seen was densely packed, full of shops, apartment complexes, and alleyways - perfect for an operative like Kwon to slip through unnoticed. He felt a flicker of unease. The man wasn't just another target. Something about him gnawed at Callen, a familiarity that he couldn't shake. He should have immediately pushed the thought away, but it was lingering like a shadow on the edge of his mind.

"G?" Sam's voice broke through the fog of his thoughts.

He blinked and turned to face his partner, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling that was creeping up on him. "Yeah?"

The face, the intensity in the eyes - it reminded Callen of himself when he was younger. A child trained to be a weapon, conditioned to kill. He remembered being eight years old, moved from Pasadena to Los Angeles by the C.I.A, starting to be taught to be efficient, cold, ruthless, and without emotion. All of it had been drilled into him, all for the sake of duty. He'd spent years being moulded into something he didn't fully understand - just a tool in someone else's hands.

Kwon's path was no different. The man had been raised to be a weapon, trained from childhood, just like Callen had been. Only his handlers had been from North Korea, still grooming him to do their bidding, to fight their wars. Two boys, on opposite sides of the world, shaped in much the same way.

For a moment, Callen's mind wandered - back to a time he had long since buried. The cold, sterile rooms where Pembrook had taught him how to hurt, how to stay silent, how to survive at any cost.

Sam's brow furrowed, clearly sensing something off. "You good?"

Callen nodded quickly, brushing off the feeling. He couldn't let himself get lost in the past - not now. They had a job to do, and Kwon was the one standing in their way. "Yeah, just… thinking."

His partner eyed him for a moment longer but didn't press it. "Fatima just got a lead on Kwon's location. Partially visible in a store window. He's been moving through the area."

"We need to act fast," Deeks said, "or he's just going to pull a Houdini."

"Yeah," Rountree agreed.

Callen snapped his focus back to the task at hand, the emotions firmly pushed aside. "Let's move," he said, voice firm.

Without another word, the team began to gear up, quickly heading toward the tunnel exit. Deeks and Rountree fell into step behind him and San, all of them moving with a shared sense of purpose. There was no room for error here and the air was charged with the kind of tense energy that preceded a hunt.

The streets of Koreatown were bustling, the usual mix of locals and tourists filling the sidewalks. Callen scanned the crowd, his eyes darting between faces, looking for any sign of their target. He wasn't sure why, but the closer they got to the area, the more his gut twisted; He thought briefly of Beltran and how that disaster had ended.

"He's close," Sam said quietly. "Stay sharp."

They moved quickly, blending into the crowd as seamlessly as they could. Callen's eyes flicked from face to face, looking for any sign of Kwon. He knew the man would be good at hiding - probably already aware they were coming.

They turned a corner into a quieter alley, and Callen's instincts screamed. Without a word, he broke off from the others, heading toward the back of a nearby store. There was a movement in the shadows, just barely visible. He caught a glimpse of a figure slipping inside, and his heart skipped.

"That's him," he muttered under his breath.

Sam and the others followed, keeping a safe distance. Kwon had disappeared into the building's back entrance, moving with the kind of fluidity that made it clear he was no stranger to evading pursuit. His mind raced - every corner, every exit was calculated. Kwon wasn't just running from them; he was leading them. But they couldn't let him slip through their fingers now.

"Deeks, Rountree, head in the front entrance," he instructed, his voice low but urgent. "Sam and I'll take the back."

The team split into their assigned positions, he and Sam moving to the rear. As they approached the back door, Sam's hand hovered near his weapon, but Callen shook his head.

Callen pointed to his eyes and then gestured in a circular motion, indicating they needed to stay alert. He then made a fist, tapping it with his other hand to signal that this was going to be difficult. Finally, he formed a "C" shape with his hand and shook it, signalling that Kwon would be tough to corner.

Sam nodded slightly, understanding what he was saying immediately: 'Keep your eyes peeled. He'll be hard to corner.'

The back door was slightly ajar, and Callen could hear the faint sound of footsteps inside. He gestured for Sam to follow him, and they slipped inside, moving silently through the narrow hallway. The place felt empty - too empty.

There was a door at the end of the hall, and through the cracks in the doorframe, Callen could make out the flicker of light from a computer screen.

Callen pointed to the door with his index finger, then formed an "O" shape with one hand, placing it inside his other palm to signal that Kwon was inside. He followed by pointing again to the room, giving a subtle directional gesture to pinpoint the location. His message was clear: 'He's in there.'

Sam nodded, Callen already reaching for his service weapon.

They had to act fast. Callen kicked open the door a moment later, his weapon raised, but the room was empty. A moment of disbelief struck before Callen's eyes shifted to the far corner of the room.

There, hidden behind a stack of crates, was a small window.

The light outside was fading, and the city lights below were just beginning to glow in the twilight. Kwon had taken the rooftop exit.

"Damn it," Callen cursed, moving toward the window. He had to hand it to Kwon. The man was good. Too good. He turned on his comms and quickly let Deeks and Rountree know where Kwon was headed.

"Copy," Deeks replied over the comms. "We're headed your way now."

Sam was already ahead of him, climbing the fire escape with practiced ease. Callen followed close behind, his heart pounding as they made their way to the top. The roof was just as dark as the alley below, and Callen knew they were running out of time. If Kwon had one thing going for him, it was the ability to vanish when it mattered most.

They reached the top just in time to see a shadow slip across the rooftop. Kwon. And this time, they couldn't afford to lose him.

Chapter 107: What They Made Us

The air on the rooftop was cold and thin, the city lights below casting a stark contrast to the creeping shadows above. Callen's breath came out in sharp bursts as he pushed forward, trying to keep pace with the silhouette ahead. Kwon was fast - too fast. And the space between them was growing ever wider, like the walls of a trap slowly closing in.

"He's good," Sam's voice crackled through the earpiece, the urgency in his tone unmistakable. "But so are we."

Callen could hear the sound of his partner's footsteps gaining ground, the rhythm of their pursuit becoming almost synchronized. Sam was always the faster one, the more relentless one. But Callen wasn't far behind.

They reached the edge of the building, where Kwon had stopped momentarily, glancing over his shoulder to see if the pursuit was still hot on his heels. Callen saw the briefest flash of Kwon's face - a man shaped by years of running, calculating every move. It was a look Callen knew all too well.

Then, without warning, Kwon spun, his figure becoming a blur as he leapt from the rooftop to the one next door, his movements fluid and precise.

"Damn it!" Callen hissed, instinctively reaching for the edge of the building, but it was too late. Kwon had already made the jump.

"Hold on," Sam said, his voice laced with determination. "I'm right behind you."

There was no hesitation this time. Callen didn't need to look at Sam to know that he was going to take the leap, too. This was what they did - what they'd been trained to do. They had no choice but to follow the path Kwon had carved out for them.

Callen stepped back, breathed, and launched himself toward the gap between the buildings. The wind whipped past his face as he sailed through the air, the briefest moment of weightlessness before his boots hit the ledge on the next building. His knees buckled slightly on impact, but he quickly regained his balance.

Sam landed beside him, effortlessly managing the jump with a fluidity that always seemed to defy physics. Together, they crouched low, moving fast to close the distance on their target.

The rooftop was littered with obstacles—air conditioning units, old satellite dishes, and stacks of what looked like forgotten construction materials. But Kwon was already a step ahead, weaving in and out of the clutter with uncanny precision, like he knew this city better than they ever could.

"He's just to the left, near the edge!" Sam warned, his eyes scanning the rooftops ahead.

They pushed forward, faster now. The gap was closing, but with every step they took, Kwon seemed to anticipate their moves, staying just out of reach. Callen's muscles burned with the effort, but the thought of losing him again - that nagging feeling in his gut - kept him going.

"Callen, Sam," Deeks' voice broke through the comms. "We're closing in on the street-level exits. We'll catch him on the ground."

"Copy that," Callen replied, the comms still buzzing in his ear. "Don't let him slip through."

They were nearly there, Callen could feel it. But just as they rounded the corner of the rooftop, Kwon turned, his body tensing, and in the same fluid motion, he bolted toward the edge of the building. Callen's heart skipped a beat. The man was about to jump again.

"Move!" Callen shouted.

Before he could even think, Callen launched himself forward, his hand outstretched, but Kwon was already airborne, his silhouette vanishing against the night sky.

No time to waste.

Sam was right behind him, both of them racing for the edge, the wind whipping through their clothes. Callen's eyes darted to the street below. There was a narrow alleyway between the buildings, the only gap large enough for Kwon to land safely. They had no choice but to take the same risk.

"On three," Callen said.

Sam nodded, his jaw tight, focus absolute.

"One… two… three!"

Together, they leapt.

The air rushed by as Callen soared through the night, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. For a brief moment, everything was silent - just the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything other than the urgency of the situation. Kwon was ahead, and if they didn't catch him now, they might lose him for good.

Callen's boots hit the narrow alleyway with a loud, jarring thud. He stumbled slightly but regained his footing immediately, his eyes darting to the other side of the gap. Sam landed beside him, barely making a sound, his gaze fixed on the figure disappearing around the corner ahead.

"He's not getting away," Sam muttered, his voice steady despite the effort it took to keep pace.

Callen gave a sharp nod, his pulse still racing. Kwon had already gained ground, but they were closer now - so much closer than before.

"Deeks, Rountree, we're on the ground!" he called out, his voice low but commanding. "We're on Kwon's tail, but we need backup at the street level. Don't let him slip through the crowd."

"Roger that," came Deeks' voice in return, clear and focused. "We're on it. Keep him moving."

They rounded the corner, and Callen's eyes narrowed as he saw Kwon just ahead, darting down another alley. The man was relentless, but so were they. Kwon might have had years of training, but Callen and Sam weren't amateurs either. They knew the game all too well.

Without a word, the two men pushed forward, staying low, using the shadows to their advantage. They kept their steps light, moving as silently as possible, but they were losing time. Kwon wasn't far ahead, but there was a glimmer of desperation in his movements now - he was pushing harder, faster. His escape was becoming a matter of pride, and Callen could feel the change in the air. Kwon was no longer just running to survive; he was running to prove something.

"G, I've got eyes on the street," Sam said, his voice just above a whisper. "He's trying to head for that parking garage. If he gets there, we'll have no shot."

His stomach twisted. The garage was a perfect place for Kwon to vanish into the sea of cars and alleyways. They had to catch him before he made it there.

"Let's move. Fast," he barked, already sprinting toward the next turn.

They reached the street just in time to see Kwon duck into the entrance of the parking garage. It was a steel-and-concrete maze, the kind of place where a man could disappear without a trace. Callen felt a deep, gnawing sense of urgency settle over him. He wasn't going to let Kwon slip away - not now.

Sam was right beside him, his gun drawn, eyes scanning the area.

"Deeks, Rountree, you're up. We're going in," Callen ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. He didn't wait for a response - he was already pushing forward into the garage, moving with purpose, eyes sharp.

The space inside was dimly lit, the harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows over rows of parked cars. Callen and Sam moved through the maze of vehicles, keeping their heads low, their senses on high alert. The silence was oppressive, thick with tension. It was only a matter of time before they found him.

Callen's comms buzzed in his ear.

"Callen, Sam, we've got eyes on the garage from the street," Deeks said. "We'll block the exits. He won't be getting out that way."

"Good," Callen replied, his eyes scanning the darkness ahead. "We'll flush him out."

They continued their search, every corner a potential hiding place. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the concrete, magnifying the tension that hung in the air. They rounded another corner, weapons raised, and then Callen froze.

Kwon was there.

Not far off, standing still, his back against a car, his eyes locked on them. For a moment, everything stopped. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Callen's heart skipped a beat. The man was cornered - but so was Callen.

Kwon's expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes, something that spoke of a life lived in the shadows, in the margins. He was not afraid. He wasn't going to beg for his life. He was simply waiting for whatever came next.

"You've been running long enough, Kwon," Callen said, his voice steady, though the tension in his chest was thick. "It's over."

Kwon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder, sizing up the distance between himself and the exits, calculating his chances. Callen could see the flicker of recognition in Kwon's eyes - he knew they had him trapped. But the man didn't move. Not yet.

Sam, standing beside Callen, kept his weapon trained on the target, his posture rigid with readiness. 

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," Sam said, his tone cold and direct.

For a long, tense moment, Kwon said nothing. Then, with the faintest smirk, he spoke - his voice low, almost mocking. "You think you've caught me?" Kwon's words were dripping with the kind of confidence that made Callen's blood run cold. "You're only catching a ghost."

Callen didn't flinch. He kept his weapon trained on Kwon, his eyes never leaving the man. "Maybe," he said slowly, keeping his posture tight. "But you don't have to do this, Kwon. You have a choice."

Kwon arched a brow. "You have no idea what I've done, what the Academy did to me, what they made me do. They deserve it."

Callen sighed. "I didn't go to the same school, Kwon, but I know what it's like to be a ghost. To have your past, your life, stolen from you. To become a ghost."

Kwon's eyes narrowed at the words, his face hardening. "Yeah, right. You're just trying to talk me down. You have no idea. No idea."

"No, I do," Callen replied, his voice low and deliberate. "I do, Kwon. I was taken. Not by them, but by my government. At eight. Different training centre, same idea."

Kwon's eyes flickered with recognition, just for a second, but Callen didn't let up. This was the opening he needed.

"We were both raised to be weapons," he continued. "Trained to kill, to follow orders, to not feel. To be an instrument of someone else's will. They made you cold. Wanted you angry. Wanted you broken. But you don't have to stay that way."

Kwon's jaw tightened. "You think I don't know that? Kwon's expression twisted, his fists clenching at his sides. "So, what? You think I'm just supposed to let them get away with it? Let them keep playing god with our lives?"

Callen took a deep breath, feeling the weight of what he was about to say. "I get it. I wanted revenge, too. I wanted to find my trainer and make him pay for what he did to me." He paused, staring Kwon in the eye, his voice lowering as the raw truth spilled out. "I wanted to hurt him, to make him feel what I felt, every day, for a long time. I thought that would help. But it didn't. It never would have."

Kwon's jaw tightened, clearly struggling with the realization of what Callen was saying. "You don't know what it's like," he muttered, shaking his head, almost in disbelief.

"I do," he replied softly. "You're not the only one who was groomed for this life." He sighed. "My obsession was ruining my life. Almost cost me everything."

Sam, who had been quiet for most of the exchange, finally chimes in. "Don't let them take anymore from you, man. They've already taken enough."

Kwon looked away for a moment, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. The defiance in his eyes was still there - but it had cracked. Just a little.

A long silence passed, filled only with the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant sounds of the city. Then, slowly - almost like it physically hurt him - Kwon raised his hands, fingers trembling just slightly. "I'm done," he said.

Sam moved forward cautiously, weapon still trained, but not raised in threat. "Get on your knees."

Kwon complied without a word, the fight draining from his posture.

He exhaled - quiet, controlled, but heavy. He holstered his service weapon, stepping forward to cuff the man.

Deeks' voice came through their comms, lighter now. "Got eyes on you. We'll meet you at the entrance."

"Copy that," Sam replied.

As the pair led Kwon out of the building, Sam glanced over at him. "You good?" his long-time partner asked, his voice low and even.

He didn't answer right away. Callen looked at Kwon, now silent between them, his shoulders hunched but his steps steady. The fight was over, but the war - he knew - wasn't just external. It never was. Some ghosts never left - you just learned how to carry them.

"Yeah," he said after a beat. "Let's just get out of here."

Chapter 108: Pressure and Persistence

The air in the room was thick with tension — the kind that seeped into your skin and made every nerve twitch. Callen's body ached from hours of training, but his mind was sharp. The lights above hummed faintly, casting long shadows across the large, sterile space. The walls were blank, devoid of anything personal, nothing to distract him from the task at hand. It was just him, the others, and the program.

In the corner, a clock ticked loudly, its hands moving with the slow precision of time dragging on.

He stood with his back straight, his breath steady, palms pressed against the cold, steel table. His heart beat fast in his chest, but his eyes remained locked on the monitor in front of him. His focus was absolute.

Endure. Don't feel. The head teacher's voice echoed in his head, a constant whisper that never truly left. "The mind is the first thing they break. Don't let them."

The first few minutes were easy. Then again, the first few minutes always were. They weren't enough to break you. Not yet.

Callen's breathing steadied, his mind clearing as he slipped into the rhythm of the exercise. But then came the first jolt - a sharp tap on the back of his head, just hard enough to sting, but not enough to cause pain. He flinched, instinctively.

A flicker of movement to his left caught his eye. Mr. Pembrook was circling them, his thin frame moving with unnerving calmness. The faint sound of a small wooden baton tapping lightly against his hand.

"No twitching, Seventeen," Mr. Pembrook said, his voice cool, almost amused. His eyes never left Callen as he made his rounds. "You're not so delicate that a tap will make you drop your rod, are you?"

Callen gritted his teeth but said nothing. His jaw clenched harder as he refocused. He wasn't going to fail. Not like this.

"Ten minutes," Mr. Pembrook announced, his voice slicing through the room with an unexpected sharpness.

Callen's arms were beginning to burn, his legs protesting the strain of standing still. His fingers felt like they were starting to go numb. He glanced at the clock, knowing he was close but still a long way from victory. But that wasn't the worst of it.

Mr. Pembrook struck again, but this time, it wasn't a tap.

The baton connected with Callen's knee, hard, jarring his body. The force was enough to knock him slightly off balance. His leg buckled for a moment, but he caught himself, swallowing the instinct to move. Mr. Pembrook then struck the subject beside him.

"Did you think I was going to let you finish this exercise without real pressure?" Mr. Pembrook said, his voice low, almost a growl. "Every second, every minute, will be harder than the last. That's how we find out who you really are."

Callen breathed through the pain in his knee, refusing to let it show. He couldn't afford to flinch. Not now. Not in front of the others.

The clock clicked forward. The minutes dragged on. His body screamed for release, but he held firm. Just a little longer, he thought. Just a little longer.

And then, without warning, Pembrook struck again.

This time, the baton hit his shoulder, the sharp, solid thud making his whole body flinch. He nearly dropped the rod in his right hand but managed to grip it tighter, fighting the instinct to bend his arm.

Mr. Pembrook was relentless. His baton flashed in and out, striking Callen's side, his calf, his back. The small strikes never left room to breathe, never allowed him to settle. There was no way to prepare for it, no way to anticipate the next blow. He could feel his concentration slipping with every hit.

"Don't let your body fail you, Seventeen," the head teacher chastised. “Pain is a tool. A tool you need to master, or it will break you."

Callen's thoughts began to blur, his focus shattered. But he gritted his teeth harder, knowing if he made one mistake now, one small slip, he'd be punished.

"Five minutes," Mr. Pembrook called, his voice now colder, like the final countdown.

Callen's heart raced. He could do this. He had to do this. But as the last few moments ticked by, the blows came faster, harder. The baton slammed into his ribs, his arms, his legs. Each strike felt sharper than the last, each one designed to break him mentally, to make him question his own endurance.

A sharp crack rang through the air as the baton collided with the back of his head.

His vision swam.

"Two minutes," Mr. Pembrook called out, standing right behind one of the other subjects, breathing in their ear. "Are you done, Nine? Is this too much for you?"

The taunts, the constant barrage of pain... they blurred together, each moment more excruciating than the last. His head spun, and he could feel the burning in his arms turning into a raw, unbearable ache. His entire body was on fire.

His grip tightened involuntarily, his fingers numb and sore, but he held on. He couldn't drop the rods. He wouldn't fail.

Just as the clock reached the final second, the baton hit him once more, this time across the back of his hand. His fingers twitched, but it was too late. He had made it. He had survived.

The timer rang, and Mr. Pembrook stepped back, his gaze locking onto Callen with the same cold, calculating look.

"Well done," Mr. Pembrook said, his voice laced with mock approval. "You passed... this time."

Callen didn't move. He didn't react. He had learned early on that showing relief, showing emotion, was a mistake. It made them think you were weak.

Then the dream suddenly shifted. The baton rose again - but it never landed.

The world warped. The sterile walls twisted into concrete, damp and stinking of ammonia. Fluorescent lights flickered out, replaced by a swinging bare bulb.

He was back there. The cell. The MSS.

And now, it wasn't Pembrook's voice in his ear - it was the interrogator's, slurred and venomous. The drugs were already in his system as he was interrogated.

Callen's eyes fluttered open, the remnants of the dream still clinging to the edges of his consciousness. His body, already tense from the memories, had remained still as he rose from the haze of sleep.

The room was dark - the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing beside him was the only thing anchoring him to the present. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog of sleep from his mind, but the remnants of the dream clung to him like a heavy cloak.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He was in his own bed. In their bed. Anna's soft, warm body was curled up beside him, her breathing deep and even in the stillness of the night.

But even the familiar scent of her hair - a mix of lavender and the faint trace of soap - couldn't shake the coldness that had settled in his chest.

He exhaled shakily, trying to slow his racing heart. The tension in his muscles wouldn't loosen. Moving deliberately, he slowly got out of bed, careful not to wake his wife. He then made some coffee and went to play some chess on the computer.

He won the game and smirked faintly. Perfect.

"Are you planning to fight that computer all morning, or are you going to eat something?"

Callen turned slightly, startled. Anna stood in the doorway, wrapped in one of his old hoodies, her hair sleep-mussed but her gaze sharp. She was watching him - not scolding, just reading. Always reading.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." She stepped into the room, walked past him to the kitchen, and started rummaging for eggs. "But the bed was cold. You okay?"

He hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. Just… didn't sleep great."

Anna cracked an egg against the pan. "Nightmare?"

He didn't answer right away.

"Yeah," he said finally, voice low. "Old one. Drona stuff. Then… MSS."

Silence settled again - comfortable, but heavy.

His wife didn't press. She never did. Anna just kept cooking. The sizzle of the pan filled the space, grounding it with normalcy. After a while, she handed him a plate of food without ceremony and sat across from him with her own.

They ate quietly.

Halfway through, his wife glanced u from her plate. "Ray and Paula still coming over tonight?"

"That's the plan," he said, "Alex texted last night wanting her and Jake to come over as well and I said yes."

"It should be interesting," she said with a small chuckle. "Maybe Ray will manage to get your sister to relax a bit."

He arched a brow. "Wouldn't that be nice." He really cared about Alex, but she was a smidge high strung when it came to certain things.

The pair continued chatting for a few minutes, Arkady eventually calling Anna for a quick chat as well. Then a car horn gave a short beep outside. Callen glanced toward the window. "That'll be Sam."

Anna stood and picked up their plates. "Tell him he's five minutes early."

"He'll say I'm five minutes late," he retorted.

His wife laughed.

Callen grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and slung it on, then grabbed his bade and weapon.

He crossed the room, pausing behind her. He rested his hands gently on her waist, and leaned in to kiss the back of her neck. "Thanks for the eggs. And the… everything."

Anna turned slightly, giving him a cheeky warm look over her shoulder. "Go. Try not to get into too much trouble."

He rolled his eyes in mild amusement.

He opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway where his partner was waiting, leaning casually against the hood of the car.

Sam gave a mock salute as Callen approached. "Look who finally decided to join the living."

Callen shot his partner a dry look and climbed into the passenger seat. "I'm exactly three minutes early."

"Which means you're officially late by my standards." Sam smirked, sliding into the driver's seat and putting the car in gear. "And don't think I didn't see that extra kiss goodbye. You're getting soft."

"I'll tell Anna you said that," he quipped.

His partner grimaced. "Please don't. She'll weaponize it. Again."

He smirked. "I'll say nice things at the funeral."

The car glided through the still-sleepy L.A streets. Palm trees flicked past the windows in rhythmic intervals, the early sun casting long shadows. They drove in comfortable silence, the city slowly waking around them. Callen leaned his elbow on the window and watched the world go by, his mind already shifting into work mode.

Chapter 109: From Paper Balls to Port Calls

The drive to work was nice, Callen just silently relaxing in the passenger seat while his partner drove and listened to a chapter of the latest audio book that caught the former Navy SEAL's interest.

The bullpen was unusually quiet that morning - early enough that the rest of the team hadn't rolled in yet, but not so early that Callen and Sam felt bad about killing a little time. They hadn't caught a case yet.

"Horse?" he suggested, pointing to the stack of paper on his desk.

Sam gave a mock sigh. "You really want another L this early?"

"You mean like the one you took last week?" Callen quipped. He liked riling up the big guy from time to time. It was fun.

Sam chuckled. "Alright, fine. But don't start crying when I kick your butt again."

"You wish," Callen smirked, picking up a piece of paper from the desk and crumpling it into a round-ish wad. "I'm about to school you so hard you'll be begging for a rematch just to save face."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Keep dreaming, G. I'm already drafting my victory speech."

Callen balled up another sheet and readied his shot. "I'm more interested in crushing your ego than your dreams." With that, he tossed the crumpled-up paper ball one-handed toward the makeshift hoop - a small wastebasket with a piece of cardboard taped above it for a backboard. The ball sailed clean into the wastebasket with satisfying ease.

They played in their usual style - laid-back, competitive, and peppered with commentary that would've made a bystander swear they were twelve. His partner took a behind-the-back shot that rimmed out. Callen landed a fadeaway with annoying ease. There was a rhythm to it - a comfort - the way old partners communicated without speaking.

Their game was interrupted by footsteps and laughter as the rest of the team trickled in. Fatima's confident stride was followed by Rountree, Deeks, and Kensi, who each tossed greetings their way.

"You two playing Horse again?" Fatima asked, raising an eyebrow as she dropped her bag on a nearby desk.

Sam grinned. "Trying to keep G's ego in check before the cases start coming in."

Rountree smirked, folding his arms. "Yeah, good luck with that."

Kensi rolled her eyes, smiling at them.

Deeks laughed, plucking up a paper ball from the floor. "Mind if I join? I've been practicing."

Callen eyed the ball warily. "You sure? Last time you missed so badly you nearly took out the coffee machine."

Deeks shrugged with a grin. "That was one time."

Just then, Hetty appeared in the doorway, her presence commanding immediate attention despite the lighthearted atmosphere.

"Good morning, everyone," she said, her tone brisk but warm. "We've got a new development. I need you all upstairs."

Callen exchanged a quick glance with Sam. "What's the situation?"

Hetty's gaze was steady. "We're going to be working alongside FBI Agent Duane Bryers for this one. There's a case that requires both our teams."

Sam's expression tightened slightly. "Bryers… That name's familiar."

"It should be," Callen stated, keeping his tone relaxed. "We've crossed paths before; that info exchange a while back." Well, that's when you met. I've known Sixteen since I was like eight. And that wasn't a train of thought he particularly wanted to go down. Recalling Drona and the things that were done to him and that he was forced to do wasn't exactly pleasant. None of that was the FBI agent's fault, though. The man was a victim, too, although he hated using that word to refer to himself.

Hetty led them out of the bullpen and into the Operations Centre upstairs, where Agent Bryers was also standing near the table in the middle of the room, his eyes scanning the room as Callen and the rest of the team walked in.

Agent Bryers' jaw ticked slightly, his eyes flickering toward Callen before he shifted his stance, military-straight. He nodded curtly in greeting, relaxing slightly once his eyes left Callen's. "Thanks for your time. This case is... complicated."

"How so?" Sam asked.

The FBI agent jumped into the quick briefing. "We've been tracking a criminal network suspected of being embedded in some Marine Corps logistics and supply chains. The network's been exploiting military contracts and using them as a front to move illegal goods - including weapons and, potentially, human trafficking victims."

They all nodded, letting him continue.

"We initially were looking into some simple fraud," the man continued. "But recently, we've uncovered some financial irregularities connected to several Marine Corps suppliers, making it a lot bigger than we thought. The group is sophisticated, leveraging military supply routes and personnel with forged credentials to cover their tracks."

Deeks frowned. "That's not good."

"No," Bryers agreed. "It isn't."

"And you want some more boots on the ground?" Sam surmised.

Bryers nodded. "It certainly can't hurt." The man laid out folders on the table. "We've got intel on a shipment scheduled to come into San Diego tomorrow. We need as many hands on this as we can."

Hetty's gaze flickered between them all. "You'll be coordinating with Agent Bryers directly. This is officially a joint operation."

Sam leaned in slightly over the table, eyes narrowing as he scanned the contents of one of the folders. "Which supplier is flagged here - Phoenix Tactical Supply?"

"They've got government contracts going back years," he added.

"Yeah," his partner chimed in. "Locations here and then in New York, Illinois, Montana, Massachusetts, Arizona, Virginia, Texas, Colorado, North Carolina, -"

Agent Bryers nodded. "Exactly. Their record was clean until six months ago. That's when the anomalies started showing up - small quantities of gear unaccounted for, late shipments, inflated invoices."

Kensi flipped open another file, eyes sharp. "And this is the part where we start following the money trail."

"Or the bodies," Deeks muttered. "Because something tells me this isn't just white-collar crime anymore."

Kensi pulled up some data on her tablet. "I'm starting to cross-reference Phoenix Tactical's shipping manifests with personnel logs at Pendleton, but a couple of names are already coming up twice, with different I.D numbers."

Rountree raised his eyebrows. "Fake military credentials? That's bold."

Fatima looked at Callen. "So, what's the play? Surveillance? Infiltration?"

Callen looked at the wall monitor as Fatima brought up a map of San Diego's port. "First, we need eyes on that shipment. If it's dirty, we tag it and see who comes to claim it."

His partner nodded. "If it's clean, we still follow it - see where it should've gone and who reroutes it."

Kensi nodded. "I'll coordinate drone coverage. Low profile."

Rountree tapped a section on the map. "Where do you want me?"

"You, Deeks, and Bryers can go to the receiving dock," Callen said without missing a beat, a tentative plan already forming. "Blend in with port security, keep it quiet."

Agent Bryers gave a small nod. "Works for me."

His partner looked over at him. "And you and I?"

Callen smiled slightly. "We're going to pay a visit to Phoenix Tactical. Shake the tree, see what falls out."

Hetty's voice cut in gently but firmly. "And whatever falls out… try not to burn the whole orchard, Mr. Callen."

He raised a brow with a smirk. "No promises."

Deeks chuckled. "Why do I feel like this is gonna end with something exploding?"

Kensi shot her husband a look. "Because it always does."

Hetty gave them both a half-smile. "Let's try not to make that the plan this time."

Callen shot the diminutive operations manager a cheeky grin and then adopted a more serious look and sighed, eying his team. His eyes lingered on Agent Bryers just a tad longer than on the others. "Let's do this."

Chapter 110: The Other Side

The drive to Phoenix Tactical's headquarters on Alameda Street was quiet. Callen sat in the passenger seat, eyes flicking over the desert landscape through the tinted window. Sam handled the wheel, focused, occasionally stealing glances at Callen. But Callen's mind was elsewhere - pushed back to the weight of the earlier briefing, to his time in the Drona Project as a youth.

The building ahead looked like any other government contractor's: tall, blocky, and meticulous to the point of sterile.

Inside, the cool air conditioning bit into the dryness of the afternoon as they were escorted by a sharply dressed man - Lieutenant Ralston, former Navy, the CEO of Phoenix Tactical. His handshake was firm but brief, his eyes steady and measured. Sam took the lead with introductions and questions, playing the role of the straightforward investigator. Callen stayed quiet, watching, peeling apart the polished veneer.

Ralston spoke about their contracts and the supposed integrity of their supply chains. Callen caught small hesitations - an offbeat glance and a forced smile when Sam mentioned late shipments and missing inventory. A door labelled "Inventory Overflow - Authorized Personnel Only" caught Callen's eye. Ralston's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he smoothly pivoted the conversation.

Sam's voice was steady, but Callen could see the tension build beneath the surface. This was no routine inspection.

When the formal tour ended, Callen told Sam he needed a moment, just to check the restroom. As Sam kept Ralston occupied with small talk, Callen slipped away, eyes scanning the hallway before slipping into a rarely used side door marked Staff Only.

The small room beyond was a cluttered storage space - boxes, crates, and dusty filing cabinets. His gaze landed on a locked cabinet. He found a paperclip nearby, working it carefully. The lock clicked open.

The lock clicked open with a quiet snap, and Callen eased the cabinet door ajar. No alarms. No cameras in the corner. Either a stroke of luck, or someone was too confident to expect snooping.

Inside were rows of manila folders, a couple of external hard drives, and a slim black binder with no label. That drew his attention first.

He flipped it open.

Inventory logs. But not the kind Ralston had shown them earlier - these were raw, unedited. Time stamps. Serial numbers. Shipment dates. His eyes narrowed. Several entries were circled in red ink, and a few had names written next to them - military aliases, maybe. One stood out: "C. Zacharuk." They'd come across that one during the personnel cross-check earlier. It wasn't real.

A post-it note, nearly hidden beneath the binder's back flap, read: "Keep separate from Pendleton manifest. Use Route 3B." A scrawled set of coordinates followed. Not a depot. Not a drop zone. A warehouse? Maybe.

He snapped photos of every page with his phone and tucked the binder back exactly how he'd found it. Then, carefully, he turned and carefully made his way out and back to where his partner was waiting.

Sam didn't miss a beat when Callen reappeared, sliding seamlessly into the tail end of Ralston's story about contractor oversight protocols. The CEO's smile was still intact, but Callen saw the way the man's hand tightened around his tablet, just slightly. He immediately set to work calming any concerns and tipping off his partner. "Sorry for taking so long. My mother called; she got herself in another fine mess."

A beat passed.

Sam didn't flinch at the 'fine mess' quip. Didn't even blink. But Callen saw the corner of his partner's mouth twitch slightly - the message was received. It was an old line. A watchword they hadn't had to use in a few years, but it was effective. Callen also saw Ralston relax fully and chuckle, saying not to worry and to reach out if they needed anything else.

As they exited the building, the heat greeted them like a slap. Callen pulled on his sunglasses and kept walking until they were out of earshot.

"Well?" Sam asked, low enough that it wouldn't carry.

Callen popped the driver-side door open and slid in, voice quiet. "They're dirty. I found logs - real ones. And a name we flagged earlier. C. Zacharuk. There's a route marked off-manifest with coordinates and a note to keep it off the Pendleton records."

Sam let out a breath and glanced back at the building through the windshield. "If they suspect anything, they'll cover their tracks."

"So we gotta move quickly," he replied, quickly texting the coordinates to Kensi. "Let's get this to Ops. See what's at those coordinates."

Back at OSP, the familiar hum of the Operations Center filled the air, but there was an edge to it - anticipation riding just beneath the surface. The cool air was a stark contrast to the furnace-like heat outside, however.

Fatima was already at her station, fingers flying over the keyboard. Kensi stood nearby, tablet in hand, eyes scanning data.

"Got your coordinates," Fatima announced without looking up. "Warehouse complex, just south of Miramar. Looks private, some kind of logistics outfit, but no clear name on the records."

Kensi added, "We're putting in a satellite imagery request, but there's a queue. Langley's playing gatekeeper today."

"How long?" Sam asked.

Fatima shrugged. "Could be twenty minutes. Could be an hour."

Callen leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed. "Alright. Keep digging. Let me know the second anything pops."

Sam checked the time. "It's past lunch. We're not doing this on an empty stomach. Let's move before Hetty sees us and decides to assign paperwork."

Deeks perked up. "Please let the taco truck be there. I've been dreaming about that al pastor since Monday."

"Not the fish one," Rountree muttered. "I'm still not over what that did to me."

"User error," Deeks said, pointing a finger with mock seriousness.

As the group made their way toward the parking lot and the line of colourful food trucks parked just outside the secure perimeter, the sun beat down, warming the pavement and glinting off the chrome.

Callen had just finished placing his order and was now standing off to the side, sipping from a cold bottle of water, eyes half-focused on nothing, when Agent Bryers stepped up beside him.

"Got a minute?" the FBI agent asked, quiet but firm.

Callen didn't look at him right away, just slipped his wallet back in his pocket and stepped off to the side. "Sure. You want to talk, talk."

Agent Bryers followed, both men finding a relatively quiet spot nearby beneath the shade of a eucalyptus tree near the side of the lot. The hum of food truck generators filled the silence between them for a beat. Callen was picking at a paper tray of carnitas.

"You good?" Byers asked, maybe trying to find out how to actually start this.

Callen didn't answer right away. Took another bite, chewed, and finally said, "Guess it depends who's asking."

Agent Bryers nodded like he expected that. He then stepped up beside Callen, a decent space between them. "You know, I remember everything," the man said eventually. "Every day. Every detail. Every… order."

Callen didn't move. "I didn't. Not at first."

That earned him a glance.

"I blocked most of it out," he continued. "Didn't even realize how much until the pieces started coming back. At first, it was flashes. Puzzles, games. A smell. Then names. Routines. Eventually, it just... stopped trickling in. And there it was."

"Like a flood," Bryers surmised.

"Like waking up inside a fire." He took a drink from the bottle in his hand. "Took a long time to even understand my own reactions to things. Why I'd shut down. Couldn't settle anywhere, job hopping. Couldn't explain it to anyone - hell, I couldn't explain it to myself."

Agent Bryers nodded, eyes fixed on something beyond the food trucks. "I spent years trying to outrun it. Changed jobs a lot, too. Went private sector for a bit. Thought maybe I could erase it. That didn't work."

He nodded curtly. "Doesn't go anywhere."

"No." Bryers paused, then added, "I don't blame you for what Pembrook made you do, you know. I just want to move past this."

Callen turned slightly toward him, but didn't answer right away. The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unsaid things. Finally, he said, "I don't blame you either, for what it's worth." He sighed. "I don't know what moving past it looks like, really… but we're both trying. That counts for something."

Agent Bryers gave a short, dry laugh. "You always were the better liar."

Callen gave a little hum. After a beat, he said, "I'm just tired of it. But I'm not about to turn this into a Hallmark movie."

"Good," Bryers said with a smirk. "I hate those things, anyway."

The pair stood there for a minute, eating in silence. Somewhere behind them, Deeks shouted triumphantly about a two-for-one deal on churros.

Callen looked back at his team, who were chatting animatedly and then back at the FBI agent. "We're not those helpless kids anymore."

"No," Bryers readily agreed. "We're not." The man paused for a moment. "But we both survived that hellhole."

Callen finally sighed and looked over. "Yeah. I'm not gonna lie and say this gets better. I still don't know how to look at you and not see all of it."

Agent Bryers gave a slow nod. "Same."

"But we made it out," Callen added. "That's not nothing."

"No," Bryers said. "It's just not enough either."

Callen didn't argue. He didn't offer any more. Agent Bryers didn't ask for it. There was no handshake, no back pat, no real closure. Just the weight of mutual understanding, shared but unsaid, like most things between men who had survived far too much and talked far too little.

Eventually, Callen took a proper bite of his food and nodded toward his team. "Come on. Let's get back. See if Ops got that satellite feed."

Agent Bryers nodded curtly and followed without a word. Sometimes there is nothing else to say, no clean ending to something. Sometimes it just stays with you, becomes a part of you.

Chapter 111: Crates and Crumbs

Back at OSP, the energy in Ops had shifted from restless to agitated. Hours had passed since Callen and Sam's return from Phoenix Tactical. Leads had dried up. Langley was still dragging its feet on satellite imaging. The coffee pot was on its third brew, and patience was wearing thinner than the case file folders piled up beside Fatima's keyboard.

"This is like trying to find a ghost in a sandstorm," Rountree muttered, spinning slowly in a chair while scanning through Phoenix Tactical's vendor contracts.

"Yeah, well, the ghost has government clearance and a surprisingly creative accountant," Kensi added from across the room, flipping through an invoice log on her tablet.

Deeks wandered past the screen, holding a takeout coffee with a bitten churro precariously balanced on top. "If I had known FBI joint ops meant this much paperwork, I would've taken Hetty up on that yoga retreat in Ojai."

"You hate yoga," Kensi replied without looking up.

"I hate boredom more," he said, narrowly avoiding spilling his drink as Rountree's chair swivelled dangerously close. "Also, have you seen Agent Bryers try to glare at the data like it owes him money? That man's got more tension in his jaw than a pressure-cooked brisket."

"Leave the man alone," Callen said dryly from behind him. "Some of us process in silence."

"And some of us process by filing HR complaints against chirpy ex-detectives who eat churros over sensitive electronics," Fatima said, eyeing the crumbs on Deeks' laptop.

Deeks grinned. "I contain multitudes."

Sam walked in, holding a freshly printed report. "Got something - finally. A logistics offshoot under Phoenix's umbrella. Real low-key, registered under the name 'Cedar River Holdings.' Used to be dormant. It's active again. Guess where the last listed delivery went?"

"Miramar?" Fatima guessed.

"Warehouse at the coordinates Callen found," Sam confirmed.

Callen straightened up. "That's our link."

"Hang on." Kensi stood and walked over, pulling the report from Sam's hands to examine it. "Cedar River's paperwork is thin - shell corp levels of thin. But there's a contact email listed for vendor requests. Guess who owns the domain?"

Rountree joined her at the monitor. "Don't say Phoenix Tactical."

"I won't," Kensi replied. "Because it's a step removed: a legal firm in Nevada that happens to handle over a dozen shell accounts tied to Phoenix's subsidiaries."

Fatima's fingers flew across the keyboard. "Tracing the firm now - Crossline Legal. They registered a half-dozen companies just this year, all under one partner: Sylvia Arendt."

"That name rings a bell," Sam muttered.

"She was investigated during that military contracting scandal three years ago," Deeks said. "Walked away clean. Slippery as they come."

"She must be laundering through these subsidiaries," Callen added. "Using legal firewalls to slow down investigators."

"And bury the actual movement of weapons, cash, or people in bureaucratic mud," Sam said. "That's why the logistics make no sense."

Bryers, who had remained quietly in the corner reviewing his files, finally stepped forward. "We've got enough to get eyes on that warehouse. If we wait for Langley to approve satellite access, we're going to miss the window."

"Agreed," Callen said. "Let's go in light, low profile. Two teams. Surveillance and recon only."

"I'll go with Fatima," Rountree offered.

Fatima nodded. "We'll bring the eyes and ears."

Callen nodded, glad that was now handled.

"I'll try and see if there's anything else in Arendt's background we can use," Kensi said, more than used to light duty by this point.

"Sam and I will check the perimeter, look for alternate routes," Callen added. "Bryers, you and Deeks stay back here and dig into Arendt. If this thing's going federal, I want proof before we start knocking on doors."

Bryers nodded. "Understood. I'll put in a quiet request for a warrant trail. Make it stick."

As the team dispersed to gear up, Deeks trailed behind Callen, lowering his voice. "Hey… you good with Bryers?"

He glanced over at the younger man. "We're functional."

"That's not a no," Sam quickly pointed out.

"It's not a disaster either," Callen replied with a faint smirk. "And he's not the enemy."

Deeks nodded. "Just sayin'. We've all got pasts. Just some of them come with classified trauma and matching dog tags."

Callen gave a quiet chuckle as he checked his gear. "Appreciate the concern, Deeks. But I've got this."

"Alright," Deeks said. "But if he gets weird, I'm pulling the churro card."

"You don't even know what that means," Callen retorted.

Deeks pointed at his half-eaten snack. "Oh, I do. Trust me."

Sam shook his head.

Leaving the building, traffic thankfully cooperated somewhat. The warehouse loomed dark and still in the fading daylight. The team split up, their comms on.

"Perimeter's quiet," Fatima said in a whisper over their comms. "No guards. No visible cameras either."

"Copy," Callen responded before looking down at the device in his hand. "Infrared's picking up heat signatures inside. Could be machinery, or something else."

Movement," Sam murmured, crouched beside a rusted shipping container across the alley. He watched as a door near the back of the warehouse cracked open. Two figures stepped out - young, early twenties maybe—carrying what looked like empty crates to a dumpster already half-full with shredded documents and broken-down pallets.

"Low-level," Sam noted. "They move like temps. Nervous, sloppy."

Callen nodded. "Let's get closer. Quietly."

Across the lot, Fatima and Deeks were perched atop an adjacent rooftop. From their angle, they had a clean sightline down into a side window, where low industrial lighting cast long shadows across rows of metal shelving.

"I'm seeing maybe half a dozen crates marked as 'Medical Aid, '" Fatima said into comms. "But they're stacked with no real logic. It's more like they were dumped there."

"That's not staging. That's a stash," Deeks said. He adjusted the small scope on his rifle. "Wait… there's a desk. Bottom level. Some kind of ledgers or receipts. Lined up like someone was halfway through something."

"Can you get a clear shot of it?" Callen asked.

"Yeah," Deeks said. He aimed his camera lens down and took several photos through the glass. "Looks like a shipping ledger. Top page is marked 'CLIENTS – WESTERN REGION.' That ring any bells?"

"Not unless you've got names," Sam replied.

Fatima was already enhancing the image on her tablet. "Give me a sec. I've got partial names, initials mostly—looks like aliases. But here's something: Phoenix Tactical is listed as the sender. But the clients aren't military. One's flagged 'RR Enterprises – VZ' and another is just listed as 'Tirak Holdings.'"

"Private buyers," Callen muttered. "Some of these shell clients may not even be U.S.-based."

Sam grunted. "Figures. Keep digging."

Down below, the two warehouse workers had finished with the crates and were heading back inside. Callen motioned to Sam and silently crept toward the side entrance they'd left open a crack.

The door groaned faintly as Sam eased it open. Inside, the warehouse smelled like dust and machine oil. The lighting was dim, and the interior was cooler than expected, cooled by overhead fans that hummed softly.

Footsteps echoed somewhere nearby—light and uneven. Callen held up two fingers.

They moved like ghosts between the shelves, careful to avoid patches of light. Around a corner, near a makeshift break area littered with fast food wrappers and a blinking coffee maker, the two men sat on overturned crates, talking quietly.

"Don't like this," one muttered. "They said no questions, just move the boxes and keep our mouths shut."

The second guy fidgeted. "It's just gear, man. Old Army stuff. No one's gonna care."

"You didn't see what was in that back crate. That wasn't gear."

Callen made eye contact with Sam. They stepped out together, weapons low but visible.

"Hi, gentlemen," Callen said evenly. "We're going to need a minute of your time."

The first guy scrambled to his feet, hands half-raised. The other froze like a deer in headlights.

"We didn't do anything!" he blurted.

"That's great," Sam said. "Because we're not here for you—we're here for who hired you."

They herded the two men to the break area without issue, patting them down quickly and securing their phones. No weapons. Just a pair of underpaid, underinformed errand boys.

"Names?" Callen asked, flipping through one of their wallets.

"Trevor, the first guy said. "He's Mike. We were told to move some crates - swear to God, that's it."

"Who gave the order?" Sam asked.

"Some lady in a suit," the second guy said. "Blonde. Looked military but wasn't."

Callen and Sam exchanged a look. "Sylvia Arendt?" Sam then asked.

Trevor blinked. "I don't know her name. She didn't talk to us. We got the job through a contracting app."

Fatima's voice buzzed in their ears. "Hey, we just got a hit on one of the names in the ledger. Tirak Holdings is registered to a dummy address in northern Mexico. DEA flagged it last year as a suspected laundering front for weapons redistribution. No formal charges yet."

"How much of the ledger can you read?" Callen asked.

"More now," Fatima said, typing furiously. "Deeks' photos caught just enough for cross-referencing. I've got four buyers on the list. Two domestic, two international. Looks like some shipments were rerouted through San Ysidro."

"That's a serious border op," Sam muttered.

"And it's not just about military surplus anymore," Callen said. "This is black-market trafficking disguised as contract overflow."

Deeks chimed in. "We just officially crossed into federal nightmare territory."

"Copy that," Callen said. "Fatima, flag this to Bryers and send everything to DOJ contacts—quietly. We may have just found the distribution chain."

"On it," she said.

Sam looked down at the two terrified workers. "You're gonna stay here until backup arrives. And you're going to write down every face, every name, every time you've stepped in this building."

"I only started two days ago!" Mike whined.

"Great," Callen quipped. "Then your memory's fresh."

They moved quickly through the rest of the warehouse, snapping photos, logging serials, and uploading the client list to Ops. No heavy muscle showed up. No alarms tripped. But something about the emptiness felt wrong - too easy.

As Callen pulled the side door closed behind them, Sam muttered, "This was staged."

"You think they emptied the important stuff already?" he surmised.

"Or left just enough behind to buy time," Sam suggested.

"Yeah," Callen agreed grimly. "You should be writing children's books."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's hope I'm wrong."

Chapter 112: Crossfire at Calexico

The sun hadn't even cleared the tops of the palm trees that next morning when Fatima and Kensi walked into the bullpen from up in Ops.

Fatima had a grim look pinching her brow. "Got something," she said, her voice cutting through the morning stillness of Ops like a switchblade.

He looked up from the coffee machine. "Good something or bad something?"

Fatima arched a brow. "Depends on how you feel about covert airstrips near the border and humanitarian aid crates packed with small arms."

Callen's eyes narrowed as Fatima's words sank in.

Sam, perched at his desk with a large cup of coffee in his hand, leaned shot Fatima a look. "We've been trying to confirm that for three days. You sure?"

Fatima nodded. "Cross-referenced flagged manifests with DEA's open investigations. Found a match - same shipping code from the Miramar warehouse showed up at a private airstrip just outside Calexico. Shipment's scheduled for departure tonight."

"Destination?" Callen asked.

"Guatemala," Kensi replied. "Labelled as medical relief. But the sender? One of Phoenix Tactical's shell subsidiaries - Cedar River Holdings."

He set down his coffee, expression hardening. "This is our shot."

Hetty's voice cut in behind them - somehow both sudden and expected. "Then you'd best take it, Mr. Callen. Before this one slips through customs with a bow on it."

Callen didn't flinch. "Yeah."

"That's one way to put it," Bryers muttered.

Hetty gave a small smile, then handed Fatima a flash drive. "From a contact at DOJ. They've been watching Sylvia Arendt's shell companies. But they lacked hard evidence until now."

Fatima plugged it in. "Encrypted… but it matches our list. There's a second warehouse tied to her name. In Chula Vista. Active this week."

"We'll split teams," he ordered immediately. "Sam and I'll head to the airstrip. Deeks, Rountree, Bryers - you hit the Chula Vista site. See if there's more documentation. Fast and quiet." He then turned towards the girls. "Kensi, you and -"

"We'll keep back-checking," Kensi agreed.

And just like that, the team split off and went to work.

Of course, Callen didn't see what Deeks, Rountree, and Bryers found at the Chula Vista warehouse, but Fatima was relentless in the updates.

"Storage unit's a trap," Fatima reported, urgency climbing in her voice. "Smoke started pouring out when they opened the door. Someone clearly wanted to torch the evidence." Then came the worst news: "They barely escaped before the whole unit went up in flames. Bryers figured it out."

Callen's stomach clenched. Burning evidence meant they'd been close - too close - but they had to push forward. At least Bryers got them out in time.

A couple of minutes later, Sam walked over to him, although he was speaking over their comms. The man's voice was low but tense. "Confirmed that the crates aren't food, G. Firearms - untraceable, packed like contraband."

"Great," he muttered, trying to think of the best course of action. Suddenly, however, alarms started blaring faintly in the background. "Three armed guards spotted us, he said over their comms. "Shots fired."

And just like that, they ended up in a full-on firefight, both Callen and Sam trying to take as many of them alive as they could. With any luck, they'd be able to make at least one of them talk.

Eventually, things calmed down. Sam's quick hand was evident even through comms. "Two injured, one fled." They'd shot the men in the legs, where it was mostly muscle rather than a vital organ, figuring it was their best shot.

Something in one of the men's pockets caught Callen's attention. He pulled it out and gave it a quick once-over. "Hey, I've got invoices showing shipments staged for Friday."

"This was just the first wave," Sam said.

He sucked in a breath. "We'd better stop the next shipment before it leaves."

Back in the bullpen, Callen watched as Kensi and Fatima settled onto the worn leather couch, their tablets glowing softly in the dimmed light. Kensi's pregnancy was unmistakable now, but her focus was sharp, eyes flicking between documents and the baby name list she'd been quietly working on. Fatima sat beside her, fingers flying across the screen, pulling data and cross-referencing shipments with calm urgency.

Fatima's voice cut through the low murmur of the room. "Hey, guys, I've got something. Arendt's meeting a buyer tonight at Hotel Langford, 8 p.m., room 511. Looks like the next client handoff."

Callen saw the team pause, tension snapping tight. Deeks stretched his neck, Rountree leaned in closer to his tablet, and even Bryers, seated at Kensi's desk, lifted his eyes briefly from the screen. Sam took a sip of his coffee.

"That's a bold move," Kensi said quietly, not looking up from her tablet. "Meeting so openly." She has a point; then again, it's not uncommon. The whole motel room thing has gotten a little cliché.

Rountree nodded. "One shot, one chance."

"If we move fast, clean," Bryers said, "we might actually be able to end this tonight."

Callen felt the familiar surge of adrenaline tighten his chest. Bryers at Kensi's desk was already back to combing through background intel, while he and Sam shared a look and prepared to move.

By 7:58 p.m., Fatima's voice was steady and low in Callen's earwig. "Inside. Disguised as hotel security. Room 511. The buyer and Arendt are both present."

He took a deep breath. "Thanks, Fatima. Patch me through."

The voices came through his comm - Arendt's cold, precise. "IDs are clean. Shipment's already in San Ysidro." The buyer's reply was thick with an accent: "Money first."

Sam caught Callen's eye. It was go time.

They moved swiftly, flooding the hallway outside the room. He felt the familiar tension coil in his muscles as the door burst open.

It didn't take long after breaching before the buyer was reaching for a weapon. Callen reacted instantly - disarm, cuff, control. The buyer hit the floor hard.

Arendt bolted, heading for the fire escape. Callen caught up halfway down the stairs, where Sam was already waiting, cuffs ready.

"Going somewhere?" he quipped, voice steady, no room for games.

Later, back at OSP, he watched as the weight of the day settled over the team. Arendt was finally in custody, the entire network exposed. The D.O.J. was now gearing up to press charges. Interpol had flagged multiple international buyers as well, meaning the traitor was facing multiple counts.

After the chaos had settled and the team had debriefed, Callen felt the exhaustion settle deep in his bones. He finished submitting his After Action Report and then turned off the laptop, grabbing his things.

Walking out, he ran into Byers, who was apparently just now leaving after some sort of conversation with agents Campbell and Castor.

He gave the man a small nod and then kept walking. They'd said what needed to be said. Besides, he had a wife to get home to.