And now the end of the road. This chapter was beta-read by NavyStrong42099. Their stories, "A Mission's Wake" and "The Ultimatum," are well-written, action-packed and great fun!

A special thank you to everyone who participated in this story: SilverSentinal21, Pracarual, and Kavi Leighannna. To the authors I've grown to admire: Duskbutterfly, Jericho Steele, and Tess DiCorsi: Thanks for giving me great footsteps to follow in. Please, readers: take the time to check out the works of everybody I've mentioned here!

Standard disclaimers apply: I don't own NCIS: LA, or NCIS or Numb3rs. (Special guest appearances by Abby Borin and David Sinclair.)

Sam Hanna doesn't get enough love here on Fanfiction, even though he's a complex character with colorful dialogue. I think he loses out 'cause his love life's so settled. Oh, well. I've decided to end with a shout-out for him. )

Late June, 2013

Tuesday was a calm day at OSP. Eric's conversations with Hansen were going well, and his application was working its way through the various chains of command required for the transfer. After Eric filed the paperwork on a backlog of cases, he dug out his sack lunch a little early. He and Nell sat on the sofa in the bullpen, doing some light reading. Nell read a version of Machiavelli annotated by Scooter Libby, disgraced former aide to Dick Cheney. Eric, meanwhile, read the latest postings on the Law Enforcement Assistance Distribution Server chat list. LEADS was a classified version of a chat list. It listed BOLOs and Ten Most Wanted lists, but also was a way for agents to brainstorm with one another across agency borders. In fact, it had grown out of the post-9/11 push to "connect the dots." One posting in particular caught Eric's eye.

Hello, All:
We're looking for an enhanced method to track cars in traffic. The cartel we're tracking makes drug shipments onto a beach near Miami, and the perps disappear into Little Havana. Can anyone suggest good software?

Thanks,

Abby Borin, CGIS, Washington field office

David Sinclair, FBI, Boston field office

Eric finished his lunch in three bites, excused himself and sprung from the sofa. Back in Ops, he tracked down Borin's cell phone number and placed the call. After several nervous rings, the call went through.

"Borin here."

"This is Eric Beale with NCIS in Los Angeles. I saw your posting on the LEADS list."

"To what do I owe this pleasure? Director Vance mentioned your work, and that's what got me started thinking about using a system like yours to use traffic cameras and security cameras to help my team in the chase."

"He did?….err…umm…How can I help?"

"Well…we're expecting a shipment to come in Wednesday night, so I was wondering if you would email your program out here and we could set it up."

Eric gave a rueful laugh. "It doesn't work that way. I've got a half-dozen specialized mainframes out here with amazing video cards. What may work better is if I access the cameras from here and get patched in to your comms."

"You'd do that for us?"

"Things are pretty calm here…knock on wood…so I'm willing to give it a try. One thing though, have you seen any impact on the Navy or Marines?"

"Why do you ask? Jurisdiction?"

"Right. I need to cover my kiester with the bosses."

"How's this for you? They cross from Venezuela almost every week, and last time, they shot at a Navy patrol boat. This Trujillo cartel is on everybody's list now. Our best bet is to use this delivery to lead us to their stateside base, then take them down once they get there."
"That's the window-dressing I need. Can you e-mail me the details?"

"You got it."

"Oh, and do you have any suspicions about where the chase will run? What beach they'll start from, what neighborhood they end up in?"

"You got it. It'll be in my email."
As soon as Eric got off the phone, he started planning out his work. He downloaded a high-res map of Miami and brainstormed his way to making a list of private firms that usually have security cameras he could hack into: "banks, grocery stores, jewelry stores, gas stations," he wrote on the napkin he'd packed with his lunch. As he started mapping out the traffic cameras, Nell returned from her reading.

"You took off rather quickly. Is something up?"

"Yeah." He pointed to the iPad, which still showed Borin's chat posting. "Take a look."

"But Eric, this is in Miami. How does it affect us?"

"Check out the FBI field office on that memo."

"Boston. Oh! I get it, you old sneak! And do they know you're doing this?"

"Yeah, I just got off the phone with Borin, from the Coast Guard."

"No, I meant Hetty and Granger."

"Haven't had time to tell 'em."

Nell cocked her head to think for a minute. "I think Hetty'll be okay with it. We're so caught up here that this capability can only help OSP. Besides, Miami is in the Red Team's base territory."

"When the case is over, I'll just burn these files onto a ROM disc." He pointed to a file directory with the heading "Kaleidoscope Miami." "That way, it'll be clean, no OSP resources will remain devoted to this project."

"So what's the timeline?" Nell asked.

"Borin is expecting a shipment to arrive at one of Miami's beaches tomorrow night. That gives me just over twenty-four hours to get this set up."

"Can I help?"

"You'd do that for me? I still don't have any official okays for this," he warned.

"Sure. Getting you started on the right foot when you get to the New England office is really important—to both of us." As Nell said it, she checked that ops was empty, so when she punctuated her explanation with a loving squeeze to his thigh, she knew it wouldn't be observed.

Eric's smile turned to a moan as he struggled to keep focused on the conversation. As he pulled out of reach, he said, "Let's see… Someplace here I've got a list of the types of companies whose security cameras we rely on."

"Since you still don't have okays for doing this, we better keep an eye out for Hetty, too. How 'bout I work from the electronics lab while you're up in ops?"

"Great. Just drop me a one-word email if she gets back."

"Okay, codeword is 'Ninja.'"

"How 'bout you hack the privately-held video feeds, Nell? That way I can load the police and highway department cams."

"You got it. I'll just put the links in our cloud drive and you can reach 'em from here."

"Borin will be sending me the route they're likely to take, so as soon as we get that, we'll start looking to fill in holes in the coverage. Right now, I think the big challenge will be in Little Havana itself: small streets and not a lot of large companies."

"You may be surprised. Cubans are a powerful force in Miami politics, so they've probably lobbied the police for lots of cameras in the first place. We'll just have to see."

Through the afternoon, Nell worked in the downstairs electronics lab, hacking into commercial security camera feeds, then sending the links to Eric, who was working in Ops to integrate them into his map of Dade County. Calibrations could wait until cameras from all the major networks were roughly placed.

The agents spent their afternoon bickering over their paperwork and, for once, the tech team reveled in the obscurity their support roles afforded. Hetty's absence, though, seemed ominously miraculous. Nell and Eric worked away, but by four, Eric's mind felt overwhelmed by the details he had forgotten about since he'd assembled the original Kaleidoscope system. Now, they came storming back to harass him. "Worst possible moment. Nell's watching me wrestle with this, Borin's counting on it, and if I don't have everything in place, word will get to Sinclair, who could ruin my environment in New England."

He closed his work on the screens in Ops and made his way to the electronics lab. "Hey, Nell. I'm getting to the stage where I need a break. Are you interested in a jog?"

"We're not done yet."
"You can say that again! I need to check for blind spots, calibrate the positions and fields of view, and score the resolutions, and then there are the trial runs. I'm headed for a late night. I figure I'll jog, shower, and eat, and by then my mind will be clear and I'll have the Mission to myself." He grimaced as he thought about how much work remained.

"Sounds like it, but you won't have the Mission to yourself. I'll stay with you."

"You'd do that for me? Wow! At least let me take you to the diner to eat, then."

Nell gave a shudder. "In that case, I'd better jog with you, in pre-penance."

"Pre-penance: what a concept! Let me know when you'd like to jog."

"We can in a few minutes. Just let me neaten up here, then we can change."

At five the next morning, NCIS Special Agent Sam Hanna drove through the dust-reddened light of an early California morning, his mind filled with self-reproach. The previous week, a chase had winded him so badly that his racing pulse and ragged breath pulled his pistol high during the following shootout. He took a distressing four shots before the fifth had hit the Syrian agent.

His SEAL training had included an introduction to the techniques of biathlon, the Olympic sport that combines cross-country skiing with rifle work. Athletes used meditation techniques to control their breathing and pulse to get their shots off accurately. Sam planned to re-activate those skills by alternating between the stationary bicycle and the shooting range.

As he walked through the bullpen, he finished his cleansing antioxidant smoothie, frustrated that the lights were still on. "Can't these numbskulls turn the lights off after themselves when they leave?" he muttered, then he shouted, "Hello, anybody here?" After checking everywhere, even calling into the ladies' room, he headed up to the operations center.

"Whoa! What?"

Eric and Nell scrambled out of their chairs wiping sleep from their eyes, "What the sam hill's going on here?" Sam shouted, as he subconsciously reverted to his life as Senior Chief Petty Officer Sam Hanna. He calmed down then continued, "Just be glad that it's me, not Hetty, who found you sharing snores up here." Sam turned to leave, but caught a view of the big screen on his way. It showed Eric struggling to close most of the windows: all that remained were a beach cam showing a risen sun and another showing the map of Miami. Agent Hanna wheeled around. "Wait! What? Where is that? Put those windows back up there!" he barked.

It took every ounce of Eric's slumbering courage not to cower behind his diminutive partner, but he knew she shouldn't take the fall for his overreach, so he boldly stepped into Sam's space and confidently replied, "That's Miami."

Never one to be intimidated by Eric—or most anyone else—Sam just glowered. "Miami? Why? We don't have a case out there. Don't try to tell me you're just planning a weekend getaway."

Eric decided he'd try on Sam the justification he'd use for Hetty. "Well, there's a smuggling ring that took some shots at a Navy patrol boat in the Strait of Florida, and we'll be tracking them on Kaleidoscope when they arrive in Miami tonight."

"Why? How'd you get on the case? Does Hetty know about this?"

Sam and Eric glared at each other like a Rottweiler versus a Spaniel, so Nell decided to take some of the heat off her partner. She sensed his courage was finally faltering. "No, she doesn't. Nor does she need to. We're all caught up here."

"That's what we'll put on your tombstone. The last time someone went behind Hetty's back, she sent me out for some fava beans and a nice Chianti."

Eric finally wilted. "That bad, huh?"

"Not quite, but I'm sure she'd run bamboo splinters up under your thumb drives."

Shudder. "Better read him in, Eric."

"Alright, here's the story. You know how Nell's headed to the Naval War College?"

"I'd heard rumors, yeah. Go on."

"Well, I've also got a transfer request in, for the NCIS New England office in Providence…."

"That's great, little buddy!" and he gave him a Heimlich-approved slap on the back. Then he paused. "But that's not Miami."

"No. David Sinclair, out of the FBI Boston office, has been tracking this Trujillo cartel for over a year, so I'll use this case to introduce myself and start building my network out there."

"That sounds like a great plan and he's a good guy. But I really don't think you need to keep it from Hetty. The first step for any transfer request is to the direct supervisor, which means she's already approved the transfer for both of you."
"Right. In fact, she set me up for the position. She's been really great for me."

Nell interjected, "Eric! Don't sell yourself short! Hansen's been gunning for you ever since the Sidorov case started last November."

"See? So why underplay your hand, Eric? Whatever you're doing in Miami, you've got a well-defined goal, mapped out a good plan, it's of limited duration, and Hetty's on your side. If you just ask her, she'll sign off on it in a flash."

Nell cut in. "Ooh! The Powell Doctrine of office politics. I like it!"

Sam talked past her. "Whatever. All I'm saying is, she wants to be your sponsor, your yenta. So just let her."

Eric was confused. "Sponsor? Yenta? What do you mean?"

Nell tried to whisper to him. "The yenta was the matchmaker in Fiddler on the Roof. We better let that one slide, Beale."

"It also means 'wise busybody.' What I'm saying is that she's the one guiding you toward this position, and she's always taken an interest in her team's futures. She'd be glad you're taking initiative and mapping out a plan. On top of that, she wants to feel useful. Just let her, and it will work out for the best for both of you." His voice regained the resonance and assurance of Senior Chief Sam Hanna. "Take ownership of your actions, Mr. Beale. Take ownership of your plan. Take ownership of your future."

Eric wasn't sure whether to salute or wilt. Fortunately, he did neither. "Okay, I've got it. Thanks, Sam."

After a second for that topic of conversation to sink home, Sam dove in again, saying, "Actually, you both should understand what you're signing up for. You're two experts in specialized fields, extraordinary at what you do. Finding one job that is challenging enough for one of you will be tough, but finding two that are near each other will be worse." He shook his head ruefully. "Just ask Michele."

Sam's warning sank in for Nell first. "Well aren't you just a little ray of sunshine?" she mocked.

Sam stepped close beside her and measured her height against his bicep. "Little?"

Eric pulled her back then wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "You know what she means. We were just hoping you guys would be happy for us, for our relationship."

"I am. I'm incredibly happy for you. Michele and I agree, though, that you need to know what you're getting in for. For two-career couples, talent alone isn't going to cut it…Even for you two. You'll have to cultivate your careers, your networks, like a pair of gardeners."

Nell and Eric stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Sam turned toward the door. Eric shouted after him, "Thanks, Sam. You've given me a lot of good advice….Us."

"I'll see you two in a bit. I'll be in the gym and the shooting range."

After Sam left Ops, Nell looked at Eric. " 'and…'?" she echoed.

Eric chuckled, "Only Sam Hanna could be in the two most testosterone-soaked corners of the Mission at the same time." He relaxed into his chair, exhaling, "He's a good guy."

As soon as he said that, his cell phone buzzed. "It's a message from Sam."

H just got in. In her office. Catch her NOW!

"Well, here it goes!" he said, as he gathered up his iPad and headed for the pneumatic door.

Fifteen minutes later, the door whooshed open again, and Hetty charged into ops, Eric a few paces behind her, his expression much more relieved than hers. Nell's puzzlement came to an end when Hetty explained, "Ms. Jones, you should be glad I took home quite a lot from my poker pool last night. I'm in one of my better moods, so all my frustration was vented at your colleague." She paused, then continued, "Since we're all caught up, I had been thinking of a team-building exercise for everyone, but the alternative is some work on the rifle range, and that would only involve the field agents, so I'll change my plans."

"Thank you, Hetty."

"Let me know when you've got everything set up. I'm anxious to see it," she said with an enigmatic grin.

"It should be in about an hour. … Better make it an hour and a half, we still need a bite to eat," Eric said to Hetty's back. Without turning, she gave an acknowledging wave as she got to the door.

Not more than twenty minutes later, Hetty strode into ops, carrying a tray with two large coffees, four madeleines, and a bag of Oreos. "Refreshments!"
Nell was the first to scrape her jaw from the floor, composing herself enough to ask, "But Hetty, we're not allowed food or drink in ops. Why now?"

"Relax! Relax! I just got word that your transfers are completely approved. It's too late for me to fire you. I'm just so pleased with this idea that I'm bending the rules. One time only!" She took a second to look at the big screen, surprised to see fifteen separate cars being tracked.

Eric followed her gaze. "Oh, that. The morning service just let out at the Church of Santa Maria, and just for practice we're following everyone home or to work. Seems to be working."

Nell interrupted, "Uh-oh. We just lost that one. I think the angle for the bank cam at Third Street and Fifteenth Avenue isn't what we thought. There she is, on the feed from the Seven-Eleven. You adjust the settings for the bank cam while I program her back in."

"Got it." Hetty left to a flurry of typing, contemplating the challenge of replacing two crucial members of her team.

Precisely fifty-nine minutes later, she returned. Pointing at the map dominating the big screen, she asked, "What are we looking at?"

"That's the little Havana neighborhood in Miami…."

"The city's divided into quadrants…"

"Like Washington?"

"Yes, except they use numbers for both directions…"

"and distinguish between streets, which run east-west…"

"and avenues, which run north-south."

"So in the southwest quadrant, where Little Havana is, streets increase as you get further south…"

"and avenues increase as you get further west."

"Little Havana is basically bounded by Eleventh Avenue on the east, Eighteenth Avenue on the west,"

"First Street on the North, and Eighth Street on the south,"

"Which they also call Calle Ocho."

"Very well. If the network is ready, Mr. Beale, please connect me with Miguel Sanchez, of 1487 Southwest Fifth Street, Miami."

As the call went through, she explained, "Mr. Sanchez is our man in Little Havana. Used to be our man in Havana, on the Cuban equivalent of the NSC, until… his fortunes changed." Without explaining the euphemism, she continued, "He's retired now, but his tradecraft is still impeccable and I think he'd enjoy a drive."

"Hello, Miggy?" "Yes, it's Hetty. Are you interested in a little challenge?" "What's in it for you? Perhaps a bottle of Scotch." "Oh, all right. That one." "Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is a simple drive to the beach. Don't tell us which one; just choose one that drug smugglers might use. We'll try to follow you from here." "Yes, Los Angeles." "Those cigars? Now we're talking a real wager." She laughed, "Only you would exfiltrate across the shark-infested Straight of Florida with only your pistol and a crate of cigars." "Okay, Miggy, you're on. You're at home now?" Nell and Eric listened with increasing horror as Hetty's badinage escalated to dangerous heights. After she hung up she, too, realized just how high were the stakes of her wager.

"Do NOT let me down, Mr. Beal, Ms. Jones. The Scotch bottle at stake is ten years older than you are."

Within the minute, Eric had all his Kaleidoscope resources focused on Sanchez's address and three sets of eyes monitored the screen for his appearance. His badge photo had been loaded into facial recognition, and DMV searched for all the cars registered by him—or his aliases. As he emerged from his condominium, Hetty muttered, "Tally ho," and the game was on.

West, South, East, North: Sanchez led them through every residential neighborhood and every back alley they could find. They had to resort to satellite cameras as he cut across a corner of the Everglades, and after he pulled a car swap, Nell protested, "Hey! No fair!" but Eric calmed her, added the new car into Kaleidoscope, and continued unperturbed.

An hour later, Nell and Eric exchanged an underhanded high-five as Sanchez finally pulled in to Chapman Field Park, right on the water. Hetty dialed his cell phone and smirked at her team.

"Chapman Field Park, sky-blue Deville, license plate ending 0561. Oh, and we noticed that little California stop at Twenty-third and Eighth street." "I'm calling from Los Angeles, so you can bet your tired ass we know a California stop when we see one." "It was a municipal traffic cam we saw it on, so if you've got any questions, we could certainly consult with Miami authorities." The roar of laughter erupting from the phone startled even Nell and Eric. After it died down, Hetty continued, "I'm sure your old friend Owen Granger will appreciate those cigars. I plan to ration them out, one at a time, whenever I need his forbearance." "And a happy Independence Day to you too."

It took the wonder twins an hour to get some take-out falafel and then address the few flaws—all minor—that the test drive had exposed. As soon as their meals had settled, they set up a videoconference with the Miami team.

"Hello, Agent Borin? It's Eric Beale again from Los Angeles."

"Thanks again for your help on this. Let me introduce you to David Sinclair from the Boston FBI."

"Nice to meet you," came a full baritone with a Caribbean undertone to the accent.

"You too. And this is Analyst Nell Jones, also from NCIS."

Abby Borin cut them off, "Enough with the introductions, where do we stand?"

"We've got all of Dade County set up. 91% of all traffic appears on something in our system and the median curb gap is twenty yards. After three years working on this for Los Angeles, I've gotten those metrics to 95% and twelve yards."

"So that's a good thing?" asked Sinclair.

"In twenty-four hours? I'm surprised, myself," replied Eric.

"Anything you need from here?"

"We'll be tracking your cell phones, too, so we can guide you to the cartel. Are these the numbers you'll use during the chase?"

"Exactly. Anything else?"

"Now that you mention it, there is one gap we're worried about, at Twenty-third southwest and Fifth Street."

Sinclair chipped in, "That's right in the corridor we're expecting them to use. I'll stop by there. If worse comes to worse, we'll have a local agent stake it out."

Nell advised, "Maybe stop by Joe's Pawn Shop and Mercado Sophia. They're independent, so we might have missed their security cam feeds."

Abby Borin cut in again, "Or they might have closed-circuit videos, in which case we're screwed."

"Only if they know about this gap," Nell replied, defensiveness rising in her voice.

Eric continued, "David's got the best plan. We'll never cover everything, but still we know more about the surveillance net than Trujillo does, so it's unlikely he'll get past us on this."

Borin relented, "Okay, that's what we'll do. We'll go live in four hours."

"Got it. Talk to you then," Eric said as the connection closed.

During the next four hours, they put finishing touches on Kaleidoscope Miami, napped, and mapped out every cartel vehicle in South Florida. As Nell left for the bullpen to get the coffee that would keep her alert through the upcoming chase, Eric ID'd every car parked at any likely beach. At the appointed time, Hetty arrived and Eric took a call from the Miami Coast Guard Station, which would be the hub for communications through the op.

Eric thought he'd better handle the introductions, so he started out, "We're joined at this end by Henrietta Lange, our Operations Manager."

Sinclair chipped in, "And back here, we've also got FBI agent Tim Runyon. He's staked out that blind spot at twenty-third and fifth."

A jaded drawl confirmed, "Nice to meet y'all."

"And this is Coast Guard Specialist Brenda Smith, at the USCG station Miami. I'll be monitoring marine radar and standing by for contingencies."

"Can we get your cell number, Agent Runyon? We'll use that to track your location during the chase."

After it was programmed in, his labeled icon materialized on the map dominating the big screen. Borin grumbled, "You pay as much attention to tracking the good guys as the bad guys."

Hetty cut in, "My team members are irreplaceable, Agent Borin. I do everything in my power to know where they are at all times during an operation."

"This is Smith, at the Coast Guard Station. We've got the boat on radar, looks like it's headed ten miles south of where they came in last time."

"Cormorant Beach? Shit. That means they're onto us," grumbled Borin.

"We've got it," Eric reassured, though he and Nell were scrambling to refine Kaleidoscope that far south. He continued, "There are three vehicles in the parking lot for that beach, a convertible, a compact, and a panel van. I'm betting on the panel van."

Nell continued, "White, with a blue bumper sticker, license plate 462A71M. Got there at 4:26 this afternoon. Registered to Alonzo Marquez, 35, with a rap sheet longer than your arm."

"Sounds likely. The other two are probably just teenage couples out to watch the submarine races," Borin confirmed, a little jocularity finally peeking through her hard-boiled exterior.

Sinclair added, "They'd be in real danger if their make-out sessions were interrupted by a drug shipment coming ashore. Do you guys have eyes on the actual beach there, Los Angeles?"

"Only from a web feed from the parks and rec department, about five hundred feet away," Nell said as she put that video feed on the big screen, which Hetty approached for closer inspection.

Borin confirmed, "I'll park on the access road, ready to pull in if there's trouble."

As they settled down to wait, Eric checked Hetty's location then took a moment to scribble on the notepad he'd stationed between his console and Nell's, "Watching submarine races: I should try that line."

Nell took a second to check on Hetty, too, then replied, "Too late now, that con is exposed."

"Drats! It would have been fun."

"I didn't say it wouldn't work."

"Then I think there are some races scheduled for tomorrow night."

Nell smirked, tore the sheet from the pad, folded it and slipped it—down her front.

"Here they come," interrupted Smith. "Radar indicates they just made landfall."

A few minutes later, Borin added, "And there they go, just drove past me, no evidence of bloodshed on the beach. Two adult males, Hispanic, bearded."

"Okay, we'll get 'em on facial rec as soon as they pass under a good camera. In the meantime, you can tail 'em from a block or two back. We've got good coverage in that area."

"Roger that."

For the next half-hour, the operation went smoothly, Sinclair and Borin following more than a block behind. Then Tim Runyon's Southern-fried drawl erupted over the comms channel. "Holy mother of Moon Pies!"

"What have you got, Runyon?"

"Some car just plowed into a light pole a half-block from here. Sparks to Kingdom Come."

"It must be bad, it took out power to a section about six blocks on a side, starting just east of you, Runyon," Eric cut in. "Was it that lime-green Toyota?"

"No, the blue-gray Buick."

Nell put the registration and driver's licenses on the screen, so Eric could continue, "That's registered to Gene and Martha Holgerson, in their sixties, from Minneapolis, not reported stolen, so I'm guessing it's just a coincidence. There's a patrol car a block west of you. Smith, can you just call it in and let the locals sort it out?"

"Roger that," she responded.
They listened as she briefed Miami PD on the accident and blackout.

Eric continued, "Our biggest problem is that it took out most security cameras in that same section, just as Trujillo is about to get there. He's coming up Fourth Street now."

Sinclair's deep voice came on. "Thinking here. He's probably going to do a 180, come out the same way he went in. My best bet is to head over to Third Street and park just inside the blackout. Runyon, you've got sixty seconds to get inside the blackout and park headed westbound on Fifth Street. Can you do it?"

"Te-yen fou-err."

Nell wrote on the notepad, "Game theory: fog paradox."

Eric's reply, a question mark, was verbalized by Borin, "FBI, why'd you stop?"

Sinclair explained, "He knows we're following him. He thinks we think he's just passing through, so his best move is to come back out the way he came in. He'll use the blackout to lose us. Runyon, if he comes out on fifth, you'll have point. But remember, it's NCIS that has the visual. Stay at least two blocks back."

Abby Borin cut in again, "There's no way to know. I'm following in." A minute later, though, her voiced turned frustrated, "Shit, I've been made. He is turning around. Coming south on fifth."

Nell reassured her, "I don't think you were made. Trujillo was just using the blackout to shake anybody who was following him."
Eric continued, "Did you see them take any time to unload anything?"

"Nope, so the panel van still has the drugs and is headed for their warehouse."

Runyon cut in, "Y'all, they just came past me."

Eric replied, "Okay, they just came up on the bank cam just west of you. We'll call their moves. You just stay within two blocks."

Borin mapped out her plan, "I'll hang back in case I did get made."

"And I'll head to the middle of Little Havana," completed Sinclair.

A few minutes later, Nell and Eric watched as three thousand miles away, the van came to a stop and the two occupants swung open the rear doors. The next minute's take-down was clean, safe, and complete.

David Sinclair ended the communication. "Everything's squared away here. Thanks again, NCIS. We'll call you in about an hour when we get back to the Coast Guard Station."

Hetty turned to watch the underhanded high-fives her tech gurus exchanged. "That should be time enough for the three of us to take care of business in my office."

Eric asked, "Uh-oh. Are we in trouble?"

"On the contrary, Mr. Beale. You have earned NCIS a debt of gratitude with two other agencies, and made the professional contacts you wanted. This is an occasion for toasting. There's a bottle of Scotch waiting for us."

"The forty-year-old?"

"Don't push your luck, Ms. Jones!"

After a little over an hour, the phone line buzzed back to life, and Eric put it on the speakerphone in ops. Agent Borin took control of the virtual meeting. "I wanted to thank you guys for making this work so smoothly. David, it's been a long haul, but we got it done. Brenda, thanks for hosting us, and pass along our thanks to the rest of the station. NCIS though. You were amazing, Eric. And you put it together from three thousand miles away, and in twenty-four hours!"
Tim Runyon cut in, "I know what I want for my birthday, a Kaleidoscope system."

"Me too!" added David Sinclair.

Eric replied, "David, you're in luck. I just got posted to the NCIS New England regional office in Providence, and I'll be setting up to cover all of New England."

Nell continued, "Tim, getting Kaleidoscope to Miami permanently is harder: We'll see what we can do from this end, but the Operations Manager for that NCIS office is more old-school. He's so territorial that if FBI were offering to run it instead, he'd probably offer to host it, just to keep it out of FBI hands."

"That'll have to work. There are times when it helps to be the big, bad wolf," replied Runyon.

Nell pressed on, "What I want to know is how David knew about the fog paradox."

"Yeah, I thought I almost botched it for us, there. What was that about?" asked Borin.

"Oh, that," Sinclair chuckled. "I used to be in the FBI Los Angeles office. There was a math professor who helped our team and I learned a lot of math ideas working with him. He specialized in a branch of mathematics called game theory."

Nell asked, "Professor Epps? I went to Cal Sci. He was before my time, but I heard good things about him."

"He's the one."

"So he told you that car would come out the way it went in?" Abby Borin asked.

"That's what he would have predicted, yeah. He explained it in terms of one boat chasing another. If they encountered a fog bank, then the best move for the first boat is to turn around in the fog, because the other would chase right through the fog."

Borin cut him off. "Well, anyway, thanks again, NCIS: we both owe you one."

"Glad to do it. It was this or case files and expense reports," Eric said humbly.

David Sinclair put a pout in his voice, "So this wasn't actually about interagency cooperation? It was just a ploy to get out of paperwork! Now we know where we stand!"

Eric protested, "No! No! I was…umm….just joking!"

Sinclair chuckled, "That's okay, so was I. Thanks again. Talk to you later."

Not much recommends the sleepy town of West Glastonbury, Rhode Island: four thousand residents, three stoplights, two war memorials, and one strip mall in the suburbs by the freeway. Its principal claim to fame is that it lies precisely halfway from Providence to Newport. On the fifteenth of August, the humidity finally broke and the weather, though still warm, gave the first hints that autumn was on its way. Into this white-picket-fence back-to-school scene rumbled a moving truck to be met by a frazzled rental agent in a tattered corduroy sport coat.

Meanwhile, FBI Special Agent David Sinclair strode confidently through Providence International Airport and flashed his badge at the TSA checkpoint. Like a wiry, older version of Sam Hanna, complete with a shaved ebony dome, he continued through to one of the gates, arriving just as the shuttle flight from New York was pulling in. After a few minutes, Nell and Eric stumbled down the jetway, hand in hand but deep in conversation about which rental car company to use. Groggy from the red-eye flight from Los Angeles, they had walked past Sinclair waving to them. Finally, he called over, "Hello, Eric, Nell!"

"David Sinclair! What a surprise! To what do we owe this pleasure?" asked Nell.

After the handshakes, he reached for their carry-ons. "Well the Red Sox are out of town and the baddies are taking the weekend off, so I thought I'd help you two get settled. It's my way of thanking you for your help with that thing in Miami."

Eric, humbled by his friendliness, muttered, "No way! You didn't have to do this for us!"

He lowered his voice, "All right. Truth be told, I just wanted to help, hope to get your work number, make sure I got a call when you had your Kaleidoscope system set up for Boston."

"I'm flattered. We'll have to work it out with our chains of command, but my view is, 'good guys is good guys and bad guys is bad guys,' so I think they'll work things out."

As they turned to saunter down the concourse, Sinclair turned reminiscent and the conversation more casual. He asked, "The 405 still jammed up?"

"Hasn't cleared since you left six years ago—gotten worse, in fact."

"Eric's not going to miss that one bit."

"Boston's getting just as bad. And still no pro football?" Sinclair continued.

"Well, not unless you count USC…" Nell answered, before she recalled Sinclair's alma mater, which fortunately was UCLA.

"Oooh, harsh!"

Eric sounded wounded when he said, "Hey! I repent that remark."

After Sinclair loaded them into his SUV, Eric asked, "I haven't yet figured out, how did you know we were coming, and that we'd have to change flights?"

"You forget, I'm with the FBI. We get paid to know these things!"

By the time they pulled onto Walnut Street in West Glastonbury, conversation was running low and Eric's adrenaline was wearing off. Fortunately, Nell had rested in the backseat, so she was ready to direct movers as they delivered the last of the boxes, Eric's haphazardly labeled ones and Nell's completely labeled ones.

In Los Angeles, it had actually been an occasion of mirth as the whole team loaded the rental van at Eric's place. After Nell left for her apartment, Eric had thanked the team and sent them all for donuts so he could drive to Nell's. "Of course we'd love your help loading the truck. Just give us thirty minutes to…umm…finish packing."

He was nervous as they sat on Nell's sofa, the sole island of comfort in a sea of boxes, waiting for the professional movers with the big truck. "Nell, our time is running out." Nell's puzzled brow brought him to a pause, but then he continued, "As soon as we load everything onto the truck, we will have moved in together. Sometimes it doesn't seem like it, but when it comes to the important things in life, I'm a bit of a traditionalist. I had always hoped that we would get engaged before we move in together." He slid off the sofa to kneel in front of her, reached into his pocket and extracted a small box containing a beautiful diamond ring. "Nell Felice Jones, will you marry me?"

Their enthusiastic hug was interrupted by the impatient honk of the moving truck out front.