Evgeni turned out to be right about something else, too. In back there was a pool rimmed with Mexican tile, brightly lit, and there were several women in it. They were nude, and every bit as attractive as the strippers, which made Callen wonder why the men had bothered going to the club. Change of scenery, he guessed.
“What do you think, bud?” Evgeni asked in English. “Want a drink? A dip? If you know what I mean.”
He liked speaking English, it seemed, but Callen replied in Russian. “Not tonight,” he said. “I’m tired. Where do I sleep?”
“Upstairs,” Evgeni said. “Pick a room. If the door’s not locked and nobody’s stuff is in it, take it. You got clothes? Suitcase?”
“At the motel I’ve been staying in. I’ll pick them up tomorrow.”
Evgeni grabbed his crotch with one hand, jerked his thumb toward the pool, and laughed. “Those girls, man, they’re wild.”
“Enjoy,” Callen said. He went back inside, wandered through the downstairs until he found the staircase again. Vadim and Belyakov were headed outside, Belyakov with a towel wrapped around his substantial middle, Vadim carrying a pair of champagne bottles. No glasses, Callen noted.
“You’re not coming out?” Belyakov asked.
“Not tonight,” Callen said. “But thank you, Mr. Belyakov. I appreciate the chance.”
“I had no choice,” Belyakov said. Callen was surprised, thinking he was treading perilously close to the truth in front of Vadim. But Belyakov recovered. “Your reflexes? I couldn’t resist.”
The staircase wound as it rose. At the top, Callen paused, getting his bearings. The hallway forked in both directions, and he picked the left, then focused on the doors on his right. He wanted to be close enough to see the pool and the deck around it. Not because he particularly wanted to watch what the Russians might do with their water nymphs, but he liked the idea of knowing where they were. The first three rooms he checked were occupied—the bed sheets were a mess, or there were clothes on the bed, shoes on the floor. Pasha was sitting in a chair in the fourth. He looked up when Callen opened the door. “Sorry,” Callen said. “Looking for a room.”
Pasha simply nodded once. Callen closed the door, and skipped the next room. The one after that was empty, as neat as the hotel room the furniture suggested. He checked the window. Good view of the pool. Belyakov sat at the edge, legs dangling in the water. There was a woman in front of him. Callen couldn’t tell for sure what she was doing, and he didn’t want to know. The point was he knew where all the men were. Pasha in his room, staring at the walls, and the rest at the pool. They looked like they were there to stay for a while, though he couldn’t be sure of that.
Still, no time like the present.
Hetty was convinced that Belyakov hadn’t made the buy yet. If he had, she said, he’d already be on his way back to Russia with the goods. His buying habits were well documented, and there was no reason to think he would change his pattern now. Still, knowing was better than believing. He didn’t think the man would leave something so valuable lying around in the open, but in a rented house where he was only staying for a week, at the most, chances were he didn’t have a very sophisticated hiding place.
He took off his jacket and threw it on the bed, so if someone glanced inside, they’d know the room was occupied. He checked out the window again, confirming that they were all there.
Time for a quick look around.
* * *
Sam opened the Boatshed, half-expecting to find Kelly Martin asleep somewhere. But only half, because Martin was a SEAL, and Sam knew that if he were in the other man’s shoes, he might have grabbed a nap at some point, but when the door opened, he would be awake and ready for anything.
“It’s Sam Hanna!” he called, to ward off any potential surprise attacks. “Sorry it’s been so long.”
“It’s cool,” Martin said. He was sitting at the table, looking relaxed. “I’ve just been pocketing everything I thought I could pawn.”
“Makes sense. Ordinarily we wouldn’t leave anyone in here alone, but this was kind of a unique case. And you being a SEAL—”
“I get it,” Martin said. “Thanks for trusting me.”
“It’s clear that you’re the victim here. And we did almost let you get shot.”
Martin touched a spot on his ribs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He looked at Sam, his eyes widening. “You have glitter on your neck.”
“I do?”
“And you smell like cheap perfume.”
“Undercover assignment,” Sam said.
“You went undercover as a stripper?”
“Bouncer. My clothes stayed on.”
“No wonder you let me cool my heels here longer than you promised.”
“Yeah, I said I’m sorry. It’s been a… complicated day.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Pretty much, yeah. You ready to go to the safehouse?”
“Is it an actual house? Or a motel room?”
“It’s a house. Not a big one, but it’ll work for a couple of days.”
Martin looked skeptical. “You expect to have this wrapped up in a couple of days?”
“Less than that, I hope.”
“You and me both,” Martin said. “I’d like to get back to my life. And get to work building a new bolthole somewhere, since my old one is screwed.”
“Understood,” Sam said.
“Did you ever have one? A bolthole?”
Sam considered for a few moments. “Not as such. I had contingency plans, but I didn’t go so far as to get a place and a separate bank account.” He left unsaid that at NCIS, almost every day was its own bolthole. He was constantly trying on new identities, to the point that sometimes it was hard to remember who he really was. Sometimes in his dreams, he couldn’t keep track of his own name. His face changed from moment to moment, so he couldn’t recognize himself even when he was standing in front of a mirror. A couple of times, he’d turned to Michelle upon awakening, and for the first few awful seconds, couldn’t come up with her name.
Often, the false identities he assumed were as elaborately detailed as his real life; if he needed to disappear, he could become any number of people.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to the house.”
“Can I get some food?”
“It’s stocked with groceries,” Sam replied. “But if you want to stop on the way, we can do that, too.”
“Cool,” Martin said. “You look tired.”
“Like I said, it’s been a day.”
“Those strippers will wear you out every time.”
“Don’t I wish?” Actually, he didn’t. He was deeply in love with Michelle, and she was all the woman he would ever need. All he could handle, for that matter. All the strippers in the world couldn’t equal what she was to him.
“Just tell me where you want to stop,” Sam said, stifling a yawn. “Then we can both get some shuteye.”
26
Callen moved quickly past Pasha’s room. He didn’t want the big man to come out and catch him back in the hallway, though he could always use the old “looking for the bathroom” excuse at least once. Since his time was limited, and since Pasha would be able to see him in the upstairs hall, he went back downstairs. He’d tried to scan the rooms he’d passed en route to the pool and the stairs, but he hadn’t been able to look closely at any of them. He doubted the tablet—if it was here yet—would be out in plain sight.
He soon found out that the house was even bigger than he’d first thought. He turned left at the bottom of the stairs, a direction he hadn’t seen earlier. He found himself in a formal dining room anchored by a table long enough to sit ten or twelve on a side. He checked the corners, opened the doors and drawers of a huge sideboard, but the thing was empty. Just for show, he figured. Ordinarily in a house like this he would expect a lot of artwork on the walls, maybe sculptures on pedestals carefully lit from above, but this house had almost none of that. A handful of motel-quality fra
med prints had been hung here and there, and when he found one he lifted it to look underneath for a safe.
That room led into a smaller serving room, then into an enormous kitchen with a good-sized pantry attached. Callen looked inside the refrigerator—mostly beer, American and otherwise, and some of the cabinets—mostly vodka and other adult beverages. The oven didn’t look like it had ever been used, even for storage. The pantry held an assortment of packaged foods, but no ancient Sumerian antiques.
A door on the other side of the kitchen fed into a breakfast nook, then into other rooms less easily identified, although eventually he figured out that he’d entered the servants’ quarters (which included another, considerably smaller kitchen, another series of bedrooms and bathrooms, and a second staircase leading up).
Still no tablet. Finally, he reached the end of the house and a door that opened into a side courtyard. He checked out the window, then made his way back through the series of rooms. There were still plenty more he hadn’t explored on the other side of the staircase.
Before he got to those, he noticed a small door underneath the staircase. He opened it and peered into the darkness, and after a few seconds, realized he was looking at an armory. He didn’t have time to count, but estimated that there were probably two dozen long guns in there, mostly Kalashnikovs, it appeared, along with stacks of magazines and boxes of ammo, and miscellaneous other weaponry. These guys were ready for war, if it came to that.
He closed the door and was headed for a sitting room he’d passed through before, on the far side of the staircase, when Belyakov and Yegor emerged from the darkness, bottles in their hands and naked women on their arms.
“Grisha,” Belyakov said. He plucked the stub of a cigar from his mouth with the hand that also held a bottle of champagne. “I thought you were going to bed.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Callen said.
“If you’re going to the pool, you’re overdressed.”
“I don’t have trunks.”
Belyakov squeezed the side of the unashamedly nude blonde next to him. “Not necessary here.”
“If I looked like her, I wouldn’t mind being naked.”
“Well, you don’t, so I’m taking her upstairs. You’re on your own.” Belyakov started up the stairs, his blonde and Yegor and friend trailing behind.
“Thanks again, boss,” Callen said.
“No problem, Grisha. Get some rest, though. Big day tomorrow.”
From the looks of things, it would be a while before those four got any rest. But for all Callen knew, they’d slept until six in the evening.
He hadn’t.
Anyway, if the party at the pool was breaking up, he ran the risk of bumping into the other guys. If Belyakov had come along thirty seconds earlier, he’d have found Callen looking into the gun cupboard under the stairs.
Time to call it a night. He made a U-turn and headed back to his room.
That bed had actually looked pretty comfortable.
* * *
Kensi went into the living room, carrying another ice pack for Deeks’s knee. The kneecap was swollen and, by morning, she expected, the bruise would be lovely shades of purple, indigo, and black. The one on his chin didn’t look much better.
“You doing okay?” she asked, sitting beside him on the couch and pressing the ice pack to his knee.
“My teeth hurt,” Deeks said. He rubbed his jaw with his left hand and took the ice pack in his right.
“Good excuse to see your dentist.” She shook her head, sadly. Deeks enjoyed trips to the dentist more than anyone she’d ever known. She supposed it was an acquired taste. Some people paid to be beaten with paddles, too. Different strokes, and all that.
“I mean, I get that Callen had to make it look real,” Deeks went on. “He needed to get on the inside in a hurry, and some phony-looking fight wasn’t going to do the job. But I was ready to go down. He didn’t have to be quite so convincing.”
“Probably not,” Kensi said. “But remember the circumstances. It all had to happen fast. He was supposed to show off his reflexes, not just his fighting skills. Probably if you guys’d had time to practice once or twice, or if he could have slowed down a little, it would’ve gone a little smoother.”
“Yeah, maybe. I think there was more to it than that.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t think Callen likes me that much.”
“To be fair, Deeks, nobody likes you that much.”
“Ouch. Talk about adding insult to injury.”
She’d regretted the words as soon as they had left her mouth. She and Deeks teased each other, a lot. Maybe too much sometimes. But she loved him, and she knew he loved her. It was a reversal of gender expectations, she guessed, but he found it easier than she did to express his sensitive side—to say the mushy stuff that could be awkward, but that was nice to hear in a romantic relationship.
She supposed it had to do with her upbringing. Her father hadn’t longed for a son, necessarily, but he hadn’t quite known how to bring up a girlie-girl. As a result, he’d treated her like one of the guys, teaching her what he considered survival skills. At his side, she’d learned to track, to hunt, to shoot. She could hotwire a car or rewire a house with the best of them, thanks to him. Her mother had been out of the picture until after Kensi’s father had died, during her fifteenth year, so she’d grown up without a traditional female role model.
It wasn’t just that, though. Her father’s influence had led her to study criminology, certainly, and to pursue a law enforcement career. But that field, not so long ago, had been an almost entirely male domain. Even now, there were few women working in it, as evidenced by the fact that she was the only female field agent at the OSP. That dynamic fed her determination to be just as tough as any of the guys, to tamp down any traditionally feminine traits and emphasize the other side of her personality.
It helped her function on the job, but she recognized that sometimes, Deeks might appreciate some nurturing once in a while. Maybe sensitivity, at a time like this, as opposed to sarcasm. It didn’t come naturally to her, and that made it feel forced and artificial when she tried. But that was how habits were formed, right? By forcing it until it did come naturally?
Worth a try, she decided.
“I’m sorry, Marty,” she said. “I was just joking. You know I love you, and so do the rest of them. Not the way I do. But Callen does like you. More importantly—in his world—he respects you. I’m sure he wasn’t trying to hurt you on purpose. It was the moment, and the fact that he was trying for realism. And that you hadn’t practiced. I know I don’t say it enough, but you’re a wonderful man, and everybody thinks so. Even Hetty, and when I first met her, I didn’t think she liked anybody, ever.”
Deeks just stared at her, open-mouthed.
“Did I say something wrong? I was trying to be sensitive.”
“Who are you?” he asked. “And what have you done with Kensi Marie Blye?”
She laughed, and punched him on the arm. Probably hard enough to hurt. “Give me some credit for effort!”
“You called me Marty. Kensi never calls me Marty. I want her back. You’re scaring me.”
“Now you know why I never talk that way. All I get is grief.”
He leaned over and gathered her into his arms. “I’m sorry, babe. I guess I just wasn’t prepared for it. I did like it, kind of. Maybe I could get used to it.”
“Don’t bother,” Kensi said.
“Maybe just a little?” He drew her closer, took her chin in his hand, and pressed his lips against hers. Held them there. She loved the way they felt, the tickle of his facial hair, the warmth that passed between them when they kissed. Kissing and making love brought them together, made them almost one, in ways that words never could.
Then he released her, suddenly, and pulled back. “Ow!” he said. “My teeth.”
She laughed again, but resisted the urge to land another punch, harder than the last.
It took almost a
ll the willpower she had.
27
June 16
Granger’s eyes flickered open when the first hint of smoke-filtered sunlight touched them.
A little gray bird—the sort dubbed LGBs by birdwatchers because they were so commonplace and nondescript—was perched on one of the truck’s windshield wipers, apparently more curious about the man inside the pickup than he was about it. Granger eyed it for a second, then uttered a soft “Boo,” sending the LGB into panicked flight.
He had pulled off the road last night and parked under a spreading oak. Not only could exhaustion lead to poor decision-making, but driving all night without a definitive plan could lead to an empty gas tank. In an isolated canyon in the middle of a raging wildfire, that could be just as fatal.
It didn’t take a lot of time in a combat zone to develop a knack for grabbing some sleep whenever circumstances allowed it, and that was a habit Granger had never lost. He had been a little nervous about sleeping when he didn’t know what course the fire might take during the night, but assumed that if it came close, the noise and the heat would wake him before he was engulfed. With the sound of the choppers and planes and wind roaring around him, he had drifted off. Now he felt somewhat refreshed, and with the rising sun, would have enough light to continue his mission.
He checked his phone. Still no service. That probably wouldn’t change until whatever towers the flames had felled were restored. At the best of times, there were spots deep in the canyons where cell service was slim to nonexistent. That didn’t affect the GPS, but it did affect the ability of the phone to download current map data. And as he’d already found, the maps were a little lacking when it came to these dirt roads—sometimes barely more than wheel tracks through the brush. The satellite view was marginally more helpful than the map view. But even that was operating on cached images that weren’t necessarily up to date.
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