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“Excuse me.” her boots thump against the carpet, soft chocolate leather hugging her calves oh-so-perfectly. Voice cold, crisp, in discordant harmony with her casual entrance – then again, she’s never been the flashy type. Up in Ops, she’d been long dresses and fitted cardigans, sheltered away from the violence of field work. “But, if you’re going to kill my husband, I have some suggestions about how to do it.”
“Husband?” the kidnapper seems to just notice the silver band on Callen’s hand – the one engraved with a possessive moniker courtesy of the redhead, apparently, orchestrating his demise. “I didn’t know he was married. You’re married?!”
“Well,” hazel eyes flick to the wedding band wrapped around the ring finger of her left hand – also engraved with a similar, just as possessive, and only slightly less frightening moniker. “Yes. I mean, last time I checked, that is what this ring means. Now, I, for one, wouldn’t have married him had I known he was so noble and upstanding,” she grimaces at the very idea of being married to Hetty’s idea of Captain America. “But here I am.”
“So what?” a nasty sneer, a tip of his head, dark hair matted to his forehead. “You want me to kill him?”
“That is an option, is it not?” Nell grins wryly, letting the slick silver case in her hand dangle from her index finger. “Now, you wanted three million for his release, correct?”
“Yes.” it’s a soft, sort of awed voice. She meant business - he knows that now.
“I’m here to give you triple that, if you do me a favor, and just get rid of him.” it’s sounds so easy for her to say the words. Easy enough that despite being tied to a chair - was that bungee cord, really? - it triggers Callen’s fight or flight response. Sweating, wide eyes, nerves jangling, and a compelling urge to get the hell out of this situation as fast as possible.
“Why?”
“So many questions.” Nell sighs tiredly, dropping the case by her feet, and crossing her arms over her chest. “Look, the simple answer is, I love his money. Not him. I figure, this way, he dies on the job; I get his pension. You get nine million and a chance to get the hell out of the country.”
“How will…?” because, apparently, this moron is a never-ending stream of questions.
“All the media will hear is how the ransom was paid by his grieving widow.” God, that smile. It’s so sweet but so lethal. Callen’s eyes widen a little more. What in the name of hell is she doing? Why is she doing this to him? “But it was too late.”
“It’s that easy?” the suspect questions.
“If you’d stop with the questions, yes.” Nell snaps in frustration, ready to wash her hands of this whole operation. She’d really like to rescue her husband, go home, and begin making up for the fact that she couldn’t tell him any of this was fake beforehand.
“And, if I don’t?”
“That’s quite simple.” Nell lets her arms drop to her sides. “I kill you, kill him, keep the nine mill, and skip town.”
“You’ve got it all figured out.” his slimy grin is honestly comical, but Nell seems utterly unimpressed.
“Yes.” What the babbling moron fails to see is Nell lifting the back of her top up above the waistband of her jeans to slide the gun out. Turning the safety off, she readies. “That's the hypothetical scenario. That's never going to happen. I'm never going to sell him out like that.”
“Why not?” he actually sounds offended (which, the audacity) that she isn’t selling out her husband – that she doesn’t want him dead.
“Because I'm a federal agent.” Nell points her gun at him. “And I actually really do love my husband. I'm going to spend the next month making this up to him because I couldn't tell him what I was doing.”
“What's in the case, then?” his voice is shrill, panicked, now.
“Paper. I had to make it look real. I never had nine million. I've never seen that much.” Nell shrugs, steadying the gun at his heart. "You can look if you want, but if you touch him, or me, I've got an ex-Navy Seal, an LAPD officer, and an ex-sniper, who can't wait to put a bullet in you. Or I'll do it. Makes no difference to me. Either way, I'm walking out of here with my husband. Alive."
His skepticism wins out, forcing him closer to the case to see if it was in fact paper as she'd said. The case pops open and blank sheets of plain printer paper flutter underneath a blanket of ones. In a fit of betrayal, he pulls the knife from his belt and moves closer to Callen; “Stupid bitch!”
“I've got an ex-seal outside who would disagree. He set me up with my husband.” Nell smiles, releasing the safety on her gun. "My best friend also happens to be a sniper. She's got you in her crosshairs. Oh, and her husband is an LAPD detective with exceptional aim and a hair trigger. Any one of the three could kill you, right now, and not touch him."
"Why don't they?" he's mocking, taunting, trying to force their hand.
"Because, they know, if anyone's going to shoot you for threatening him, it's going to be me." Nell all but growls, averting her eyes to her Callen, apologies and promises of further groveling when they get home evident in her guilty expression. "I really am sorry."
...
“That was all a setup?” the actual betrayal is minimal, but Nell’s very real sorrow is not. She is more than sorry for what she did, but it wasn’t like she had a line of communication to let him in on the plan – his captor had made sure Callen was left without even light to send an SOS signal to the neighboring buildings.
“We knew he wanted money more than he wanted to deal with homicide charges or domestic terrorism,” Sam shrugs, but his shit-eating grin reveals more to the plot than simple greed. “But we also knew he would freak out if he knew you were married. He doesn’t want to give anymore cause for investigation and a grieving widow would keep it going so we asked Nell to play the part of bereaved housewife turned black widow.”
“She’s good,” Deeks’ compliment sounds casual enough, but it is clear in his face, he is struggling not to laugh at Callen’s outrage – not that he blames the man, if Kensi ever did that, he’d be more than a little pissed, if initially impressed at the performance.
“Too good,” Callen’s eyes narrow, turning to his wife. His gorgeous wife wearing his name, his ring, and his gun. “Where did you learn that?”
“Reality TV.” Nell deadpans, clicking the safety back into place on the gun and tucking it back into the holster sitting in the small of her back. “Do you know how many wives I think would actually pay to have their husbands kill just to stir up more drama?”
“As long as you aren’t becoming one of them,” he teases, rubbing the marks on his wrist where he’d been bound. “And maybe no more late-night binges?”
“When you stop taking apart our toaster, I’ll stop watching shitty reality television.” Nell offers a long-suffering sigh.
“Hey, I’ll have you know one of the heating elements was out!” Callen retorts, pushing his lower lip out in something of a pout.
“That’s when you toss it and buy a new one.” Nell reminds him, “I’d rather replace the toaster than try to replace you.”
“Because I’m irreplaceable?” Callen raised an eyebrow, absently rubbing his wrist where the bindings had left him rubbed red and raw.
“No, because I have you trained.” Nell glowers, though a smile twitches at the edge of her supposed irritation. “And it was a lot of damn trouble to get you from idiot to husband. Hetty paid me time and a half until our first anniversary for the effort.”
“Hey!” but it’s false: he knows damn well she trained him. He was kind of a stray mutt when they met, and that’s an offense to the actual stray mutt he pretends not to know she’s feeding outside their garage every morning. But Hetty had taken him in and tried her best. Nell, though. Meeting Nell had been like telling an eager dog to sit and watching in amusement as they do what they’re told while wagging their tails and panting happily up at their owner. His ass hit the floor and his tongue rolled out of his mouth without her having to say a word.
“How exactly did you think I paid for that safe installation with cash?” it’s Nell’s turn to raise an eyebrow at her husband.
“You’re better with money?” Callen grimaces even as he asks.
“It’s a wonder you’re a federal agent because you’re actually the least observational man I’ve ever met,” Nell tilts her head back, staring at the sky as if hoping for merciful relief from whatever deity might linger there. Lifting her up to stare at her husband, again, she can’t help but point out the obvious, still twitching with the urge to grin. “And I work with Eric who had to speedrun a sexuality crisis to catch onto a guy wanting his phone number for a date so that he could accept said date.”
“That’s…yeah, that sounds like Eric.” Callen laughs, eyes bright with a renewed sense of happiness; with, maybe, just a touch of fearful awe. He loops an arm around her waist and looks down at the tiny redhead. Now, that he thinks about it, that movie Kamran made him watch a few months ago did have a tiny redhead in black leather and Callen did have a type. “So, black widow?”
“Still a no to the leather suit, babe.”