The night was cold and the wind gusted. September weather can be iffy by the shore. It's a time where temperatures can drop at night while the days stay warm and inviting but this night was far from inviting. There was a front coming in off the Pacific Ocean and it promised cold rain and fog.

The boardwalk had a slick of moisture on it and a figure approached through the fog. He was dressed in leathers, a t-shirt and biker boots, at first glance he was handsome. The look on his face made him anything but: it was angry, mean and cold. The look served him well. Most people in the area gave him a wide berth, when they acknowledged him at all. Those that chose to deal with him did so at their own risk. No, people didn't opt to deal with Max Gentry, it just happened.

The Perky Puffin was the only bar open tonight on the boardwalk. It's a seedy memory of what it used to be before its grandeur washed away with the tide. Most of the other bars had opted to close because their clientele chose to go elsewhere on this cold and blustery night. The boardwalk was pretty much empty.

Max had come to talk with one of his stoolies. He didn't know Max was coming.

The bartender looked up as Gentry came in and he nodded. He wanted to close and go home. No sense being open for two customers, Max's arrival made him choose otherwise. He'd seen what Max would do if you crossed him and it was brutal. With Max came a few rules. One was that you stayed open when he came in and the other was a shot positioned on the far end of the bar when he left. Keeping those two requirements kept his bar in one piece. When Max turned to look for his stoolie the bartender grimaced. He knew that Max could be serious trouble when he came around. He hoped his customer stayed on the right side of Max.

Max looked around the room for the man he needed. He took in the threadbare red rugs and the cracked leather seats at the booths that were marked with rings from the wet bottles of beer. The lights were on low to keep any unsuspecting patron unaware of how shabby the place really was. Many of the beer signs were only half lit due to the bulbs being blown and they were never going to be replaced.

He found his man and took a few seconds to check him out. Jackie Wilton was a low level street punk with a pill problem. He looked like it had been a few days since his last fix. He was sweaty and his eyes were red and blood shot.

Max walked over, took another look at him and shoved him into a corner. There was a deep feral growl before Max spoke. "Jackie… look at you man. What a mess. I can help you but I need something from you …information about Jerome Cryler and who he's working for these days?"

Jackie had a look of abject fear on his face but who he was afraid of was questionable. He knew what Max was capable of. He'd been on the receiving end of that; once. Jerome Cryler was just as bad but had muscle behind him, serious muscle. He was working for one of the cartels down in the south side of Los Angeles. "I, I don't know. Honest Max, I don't."

Max didn't buy it. He looked towards the bartender and the door and then he leaned into Jackie. He pushed him further into the wall with his arm across Jackie's throat. "I need to know… now… Jackie. I won't be able to help you when you go into complete withdrawal from whatever pills you've screwed up your pathetic life with." He hesitated just long enough for Jackie to have difficulty breathing. "Thinking time is up. What's it going to be Jackie?" Max pushed a little harder.

Jackie started to struggle against Max. He began to think Max was definitely scarier and began to motion for Max to stop. "I think he is working for the Southlands." His voice croaked as he spoke.

Max let up and backed away. "I'll be back if you're wrong and Jackie, you don't want that. Here's fifty dollars, get yourself some help. Stay away from the pills." Max tossed the bill on the floor in front of Jackie, turned and walked away. He stopped at the bar, looked around and took the requisite shot of whiskey, then walked out into the night.

Jackie straightened his clothing and swallowed. He then bent over and picked up the fifty and stuffed the bill into his pocket and went back to his drink.

The other patron of the bar stood up. She had sat back in the corner out of sight. Jackie had known she was there as had the bartender. Neither man wanted her to leave. She was a looker, a tall brunette with gorgeous, but curious eyes. She finished her drink, threw her cash on the table and moved, like the lioness she was, towards the door. Both men watched her leave.

The mission only had part of the lights on but the team awaited their own. Marty Deeks walked in the front door in the leathers, t-shirt and biker boots that typified Max. Kensi came in about five minutes later. Both were tired. It was after nine. Callen and Sam had hot coffee waiting for them and sandwiches. Eric and Nell had put the feed into the bullpen for them to use. Hetty had left an hour before their arrival.

Callen was ever the pessimist. "Is he telling us the truth? Dealing with the Southlands can get us all killed."

Deeks wasn't sure about the intel either. Jackie sometimes tried to hold out on him. It had been questionable using him. "Don't know. We could put feelers out in Southland territory and see what pops up. I could ask Lieutenant Bates to check it out for me."

Sam wanted to make sure they all came back from this job. "Do both, just don't let it come back to us. I don't trust anyone who isn't on this team."