Journey Series: Ellick

"I Don't Get Caught. I Get Made."

Nick POV

Torres knew something was off. After his before dawn run, something just hadn't set right with him. That day during his time with the gang, every time he turned his back, he felt like the others were boring holes into his backside. Experience had taught him to not act out or panic in moments this critical. He kept the act together, but as soon as he shut the door to his condo, he scoured the building top to bottom, all the while growing angry with himself. If somehow they had bugged him, that meant either they were better than he was, which he hated to admit, or he had grown complacent, which he would hate to admit even more. Both were just as dangerous. Two hours of through search proved to be a waste of time. But he was smart enough to pay attention to the warnings firing from his gut. Somehow, he had been made, and he wasn't sure how much time he had.

Torres retrieved some tools from the garage. As he had learned over the years, it was important to keep up the appearance of normalcy. Also typical tools could possess many uses. He moved his bed and delicatedly pried up a floor slat with a garden shovel. Underneath was a burner phone with just about every dirty nausea inducing secret about the gang one could in their wildest dreams never imagine. And a notebook. He spent the next forty-five minutes organizing his notes and compiling a file of photos in the light of the bathroom. Why the bathroom lights were always the best for taking photos had always been beyond him. Yet that didn't really matter. Only sending off a clear message did. He sent the files off to the secured line, then waited until it had been sent before snapping the phone in half. He had to get out.

Around 0115, he slipped out the front door of the condo with a bag slung over his shoulder, ball cap on his head. He made it to the bus station, bought a ticket with cash. He got on the bus and disappeared into the night. But when he got off, his instincts shot immediate red flags. They were there. Adrenaline kicked in full force, and he took off running. He turned a corner, successfully evading them when--WHAM! An iron fist caught him straight in the gut. "Hello there Diego. Or should I say, Nick Torres," the cruel voice crooned from the shadows. Rico, Nick thought darkly. The face in front of the brains. He had keeled over from the sudden shock, but was fighting to stand. "But either way," Rico continued, "the boss wants you to know that it is very rude to lie, and that your mother should have taught you better. But, do you know what happens to little boys who lie?" With rather unfortunate timing for him, Torres's pursuers caught up and restrained him. Rico knelt down to meet his face and whispered maliciously, "They are punished." Torres spit in his face. "Go to hell," he growled. Rico wiped his face. "A fighter," he chuckled, and leaned down once more. "We will break your spirit."

Ellie POV

Ellie had a sinking feeling. Not sick, just sinking. One of those creepy intuitive moments. She had had a few of those before, and they were right on. "Gibbs, something's wrong," she blurted out.

He looked at her, confused. His mouth opened, query prepared, when Vance suddenly appeared and said, "Gibbs, McGee, Bishop, MTAC, now!" MTAC was momentarily dark before the massive screen illuminated, temporarily blinding Ellie. What she saw was the face of an unfamiliar man. He spoke. "Director Vance, thank you for meeting me on such short notice." Vance lifted his hand. "Let's skip the formalities Clark, one of my agents is involved in this, and you'd better believe that the patience of those with me is rather short fused." The man on the screen nodded. "What is this about," McGee asked. The man on the screen, Gen. Clark Sanders squared his shoulders and plunged into a detailed narrative.

"Over two years ago we initiated an undercover operation in Colombia to begin a destabilization and hopefully eradication of yet another gang that specialized in the combined efforts of drug smuggling and human traffiking. We made contact with multiple organizations, looking for possible agents who would fit the cover we needed to establish. Like any operation, this would be a dangerous endevour, which is why we were surprised when your agent, Nicholas Torres personally volunteered. We were made aware of his recent situation which usually would have qualified him as possibly unstable and unfit for the task, but given his astounding track record of almost a decade, we were willing to take a shot with him. Not to mention, we were desperate to get someone in as soon as possible. He had infiltrated the inner circle by a month's time, way ahead of schedule. We received short updates here and there from him for about a year and then he went dark. When we notified Director Vance, he told us that though normally he would request extraction, this sort of behavior was typical of Torres and that if he needed help, he would connect with us somehow."

"Now why is this important," asked Gibbs. The General sighed and continued, "This morning around 0040, one of our communication lines with agent Torres's was flooded with snapshots and documented shorthand. Among the photos and deciphered writing we found agent Torres had accumulated a mass amount of evidence that this gang was combining their efforts. They not only appear to be trafficking women between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, but also using them as drug mules as well." Grutesque photos appeared on the screen along with a sample page of short hand. Ellie inhaled sharply. Though the short-hand was nearly incomprehensible, it was Nick's handwriting. The General had continued talking, "Following this massive data dump, Torres's phone went off once again, almost immediately. We believe due to the extremes of the circumstances that agent Torres was made in his operation and is either now captive in the hands of the gang or on the run. The US military cannot intervene off-base in Colombia without major blowback, which is why I have intervened on your behalf to get you all on a plane in half an hour. This will be your retrieval mission and you are free to the usage of our resources. I only ask that you remain discreet as possible." Finally Gibbs spoke. "Okay. Bishop, McGee, you heard the man. Half an hour. Let's go!"

The words "Torres was made," knocked Ellie into a state equivalent to a dreamland. Everything else faded to the background, intertwining, becoming a mass of just noise as those three words were clear in front of her mind, caught in a repeating loop. She could focus on nothing else, but she had to. She cut herself out of the cloud just in time to hear Gibbs bark, "-you heard the man. Half an hour. Let's go!" Everything she needed was in her go-bag. She grabbed it and carpooled with McGee.

For a while, none of them spoke. Until McGee did. "How are you doing, Bishop?" He saw her clench her fists. "I know, this is hard for you, and yeah, you probably don't want to talk to me and have me try to sympathize. I can't the same way so I won't. Torres means a lot to all of us. Maybe even more to you. Knowing Gibbs," he chuckled, "we aren't going home unless he comes back with us." She relaxed slightly. "Thank you, Tim," she said. "Just promise me two things," he said. "Two," she said with a smile. "Don't shut us out, and don't go rogue." she laughed softly, a good sign, McGee thought, and said, "Deal."

They then pulled into the airport and got on the plane. It was a quiet ride. Well, as quiet as it could be on a transport plane. Even Bishop occasionally crunching down on snacks, could not rival the raging of the engines. They touched down hours later and were immediately escorted in a jeep by plainclothes US military to a hotel on the outskirts of the city of Pitalito. They had adjoining interconnected rooms. They all stashed their go-bags under their beds but kept out the essentials. Their guns, for instance. They convened in Gibbs's room and Ellie asked the obvious. "Well, we're here. So what do we do now?"