Saving McGee

Shellie Williams

****

McGee followed Mr. Archer into the living room. The elderly gentleman moved slowly, leaning heavily on his wooden cane. He shuffled to the couch and turned, then began lowering himself to the faded cushions. Resisting the urge to hold Mr. Archer's elbow and guide him safely to his seat, McGee chose the overstuffed chair facing the couch and sat down. He pulled a small notebook from an inside pocket, apologizing as he searched for his original notes.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, Mr. Archer, but there were a few questions I needed to clear up."

Seated, both hands planted atop the cane's hook, Mr. Archer regarded him sourly from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. "My son is innocent. Why can't you people get that through your heads?"

Ducking to avoid the question, McGee thumbed quickly through his notes. "Michael has not contacted you since he went missing four days ago, correct?"

"I told you that, day before yesterday."

"Yes, well, just making sure nothing's changed since the last time we talked, Mr. Archer. Your son still has not contacted you?"

"No." The older man chewed his words like gravel and spit them at McGee. "I told you he probably headed for Florida to see his old army buddy, Jeff Crump."

"Yes -- " A muffled thump from the kitchen drew McGee's attention.

Apparently, Mr. Archer heard it too, because he moved as if to turn, but instead his eyes shifted nervously, then refocused on McGee.

"We tried to verify that, but unfortunately Jeff Crump passed away last year." The scrape of wood on wood, like a drawer being pulled open, moved McGee to his feet. "Mr. Archer, I thought you said you were alone this afternoon."

"I am. That's the cat." Eyes widened with alarm, Mr. Archer stood quickly and moved to block McGee's entrance into the kitchen.

Surprised with the quicker-than-expected move, McGee paused briefly, then reached to pull his gun from his holster. "Excuse me, Mr. Archer." Shifting around the older man, McGee peered cautiously into the kitchen. Michael Archer stood near the refrigerator, knife in hand, frozen to the linoleum as if he'd stepped in crazy glue.

"Michael Archer, you're under arrest for the murder of Staff Sergeant Hendrix. Put the knife down and keep your hands where I can see them."

Michael's eyes shifted slightly to a spot just behind McGee's shoulder. Realization that he'd left his back unprotected hit at about the same time solid wood connected violently with his skull. The old cane shattered and splinters showered the linoleum.

McGee's head snapped back with the blow; he tumbled to the floor. His gun skittered across the kitchen and spun to a stop beside Michael's foot. Michael reached for the weapon.

"Michael, No!"

The young man stopped and peered up at his dad. "He was going to arrest me, Pa."

"I know. But you don't have to kill him. Just take him away and keep him quiet for a few days while you get a head start. They'll be so busy looking for their missing agent they won't have time to look for you."

"But --"

"Do as I say!"

The thunderous command filled the small room. The tall, burley sailor's wide shoulders cringed. "Yes sir. Where should I take him?"

Mr. Archer studied the floor for an instant before looking back at his son. "Take him to the old home place. Tie him up and put him in the barn. If they don't find him in a few days, I'll give them some sort of clue as to where to find him. You should be long gone by then."

McGee shifted slightly and moaned. Michael's face curled into an angry sneer. Before his father could stop him, he drew back his foot and landed a hard kick to McGee's side. The unconscious NCIS agent curled in around himself and grew quiet.

"Michael!"

"He was going to arrest me and send me to prison!"

Jaw knotting with repressed anger, Mr. Archer moved across the room to his son. "Tie him up and get him in the truck. Make sure no one sees you." He glanced down at McGee, then back at his son. "And make sure he stays alive, or I won't be able to help you if they do manage to find you." Waiting long enough to make sure his message was clear, Mr. Archer shuffled past his son. "I'll go move his car."

A smile slid across Michael's face. He pulled out a nearby drawer and withdrew a twisted bundle of hemp rope. Kneeling beside McGee, he roughly rolled the agent to his stomach and pulled his arms behind his back. "'Make sure he stays alive.' -- That'll be up to him, Pa, not me." Wrapping the rough rope several times around McGee's wrists, Michael knotted and cut it then started on his feet.

Pushing McGee to his back, Michael stood. Grabbing McGee's jacket lapels, he pulled him from the floor, then deftly hefted him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. A whuff of air gushed from McGee. Michael smiled and carried his burden out through the garage. Not taking time to be gentle, he dumped McGee in the bed of the truck and covered him with an old tarp. Even if he regained consciousness during the trip, the ropes would keep him from moving much, or at least keep him occupied for the hour-long trip to the old farm.

Michael gunned the engine a few times, then shifted into drive and left the house. In the back of the truck, McGee swarm through darkness, oblivious of the danger ahead.

***

"Where's McGee?"

Ziva glanced up from her keyboard with Tony's question. "I believe Gibbs sent him back to Mr. Archer's house to follow up the new lead." She paused, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

A frown danced across Tony's face. He shrugged. "No reason. Just seems like he should be back by now."

The elevator doors opened and Gibbs made a beeline for his desk. He used his key to unlock the drawer and remove his weapon. "Tony, run a background check on Mr. Archer. The father, not the son. Ziva, I need you to -"

"Locate the other men in Ensign Archer's squad? On it."

Fingers poised over his keyboard, Tony watched Gibbs turn back to the elevator. "Where're you headed, Boss?"

"Finding out what's taking McGee so long."

***

Awareness returned in bits and pieces, floating just beyond his grasp. Memories spoke to him, whispering in his mind. A rocking motion kept him drowsy, lulling him back to darkness. He tried to turn over and change positions; his arm was asleep. Something caught and held him, wouldn't let him move. McGee blinked awake and stared at the grey canvas just inches from his face. What the hell?

A hard turn forced his body over, rolling him to his stomach. Everything fell into place, and he remembered. Danger heightened McGee's senses. He tried to pull away from the dirty, oil-smeared rags that littered the truck bed, and succeeded in rolling partially to his back. The new position put pressure on his bound hands, so he shifted to his side.

The vehicle slowed down and turned. Smooth surface gave way to a rough road. McGee stiffened and curled tight, trying to keep his head from bouncing against hard metal. No doubt Archer drove the truck, and was taking him somewhere – but to hide, or to get rid of? Neither option was desirable, because both promised pain. Fear shocked McGee into action. He tried to move his feet and discovered his ankles were bound. Determination and a rising sense of panic fueled his need to be free. He began fighting against the ropes, pulling and tugging his feet apart. Something gave way and his feet were free just about the same time the truck began slowing down again. Breathing heavy, McGee held still to make note of which way they were turning. Instead, the truck slowed down more. Clenching his teeth, eyes closed with concentration, McGee focused on breathing steady, regaining the rhythm of a sleeper. This was probably his only chance to catch Archer off guard and possibly win his freedom.

With an irritating squeal of old brake pads, the truck rolled to a stop. The door opened and shut. McGee relaxed and lay boneless against the truck bed. When someone grabbed the canvas and pulled it away, it took every ounce of his willpower not to move. A hard jab to the back of his shoulder rolled him slightly forward, then back again. Archer grunted, then moved to the back of the truck and released the tailgate. Large hands grabbed McGee's ankles and pulled. His head bounced against the corrugated metal, but McGee didn't react. The second tug pulled his body half clear of the truck. The hard edge of the tailgate bit into the back of his thighs.

Quickly, before Archer could reach for him again, McGee opened his eyes, bent his knees, and kicked out hard, catching Archer full in the chest. A surprised "oof!" gushed out of Archer as he crashed to the ground and rolled away. Not waiting to see how badly he'd been stunned, McGee rushed from the truck. A quick glance showed nothing promising. It seemed they were in the middle of nowhere; no houses, no sound of cars on the highway, no voices. Just an old country house, obviously abandoned, the truck, an old grey barn in the near distance, and the dirt road they'd driven in on.

It had taken him too long to orient. Archer tackled him from behind. McGee went down hard, the bigger man on top of him, driving him into the ground. He bucked, freeing himself of Archer, then rolled to regain his footing. Archer moved faster. He locked both fists in McGee's jacket and pulled him up, then rammed his knee into McGee's gut. Winded, McGee fell to his knees and bent double. A roar brought his head up just in time to meet Archer's fist, bursting bright and painful against his cheekbone. McGee's head snap twisted hard to the side. His body followed and he landed on his side in the dirt. Archer came at him, kicking once, twice, three times into his gut. McGee gagged, his diaphragm laboring to draw breath into his lungs. Numbness stole over him, reminding him of when he'd hit his thumb with a hammer. He knew it would only last a second, then excruciating pain would rush in to fill the void.

Archer grabbed him and pulled him from the ground. He forced McGee to his feet and pushed him, aiming him toward the barn.

Head down, breathing hard, McGee walked as slowly as he dared. Archer kept pushing his shoulder, urging him to walk faster.

"Why are you doing this, Archer? You know you can't get away with it."

"Shut up."

McGee waited a second, then tried again. "Look, all you have to do is bring me back. I can talk to the --" A hard jab to his kidney knocked McGee off balance and surprised a guttural cry of pain from his throat. He dropped to his knees.

Archer grabbed a fistful of McGee's hair and twisted his head back. McGee groaned with pain. His neck creaked with the unnatural backward position. Something thin and cold slid across the curved arch of his exposed throat. Archer leaned in close and whispered his threat menacingly against McGee's face. "I said 'shut up.' You understand?"

McGee swallowed with difficulty and did his best to nod, which was impossible with Archer's tight grip. But the man must have felt the movement and been satisfied, because he withdrew the knife from McGee's throat. Again, McGee found himself pulled to his feet. "Now, walk."

There was nothing else he could do. Two huge doors, the left hanging by one rusty hinge, gapped open. Shoving through with his shoulders, McGee entered the relative darkness of the barn. A few steps inside, he stopped. "I can't see. What do you want me to --" Twisting around to find Archer, McGee's mind exploded with light, then darkness enclosed around him. His knees folded and he collapsed to the ground.

Archer dropped the shovel. He noted the open cut on McGee's forehead, then leaned down to cut away the ropes wrapped around McGee's wrists. He'd made a decision. His pa had gotten him out of trouble before, but there was no way he was getting out of this one. He'd killed Staff Sergeant Hendrix, and these NCIS people were smart enough to figure it out. He was going to jail. Period. But he wasn't going easy. And he was going to take down as many of these NCIS agents as he could along the way.

Working quickly, he began removing McGee's clothes. Leaving the young man in nothing but a T-shirt and boxers, Archer retied McGee's hands with heavier rope, as well as his ankles. A heavy pulley system hung from the barn's rafters. Moving to a wall, Archer unwound the rope, and lowered a heavy metal hook to the floor. Securing the rope to the wall, Archer walked back to McGee. Deftly, he fastened McGee's hands to the hook, then shifted back to the wall. He pulled on the rope, lifting McGee from the ground until all his weight rested on his knees. Satisfied, Archer wrapped the rope back around its anchor, then returned to McGee to check his work.

Muffled sound fought through his consciousness. McGee lowered his head and moaned, wondering why it sounded and felt as if he were underwater. His head weighed heavy and his bones ached with weariness. He opened his eyes and remembered. Cool air brushed against his skin, and he realized most of his clothes were gone. Alarmed, he pulled himself up, then had to stop and catch his breath when pain nearly drove him back to his knees. At least his arms no longer pulled on sore ribs. But without a knife or someone to help, there was no way he was going to be able to untie himself. He glanced up and found Archer watching him.

"You don't have to do this, Archer."

Archer nodded. "I know." He began circling McGee. Tim moved with him, keeping him in sight.

"Then why? You could lay your knife on the ground within my reach, get in your truck and leave. By the time I free myself and contact my team, you'll be far ahead of us."

Archer shrugged. The calculating look in his eyes, as if he were figuring out his best plan of attack, unnerved McGee. "Don't matter. Either way, you'll catch me. Now or later really doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. If you keep hurting me and holding me against my will, things will be harder for you than if you just turn yourself in, or just let me go."

Archer shook his head. "No. I've already hurt you. They'll never go easy on me now. I'm tired of listening to you. I've already made up my mind."

"But – wait!"

Archer rushed at him. McGee tried to lift his arms and use the huge hook he was bound to, to block the punch, but his sore ribs left him weak. As if he were sparing with a partner, Archer came at him like a boxer. Knuckles cut across McGee's face twice, whipping his head from side to side. Eyes closed, he didn't see the fist headed for his nose, but he saw the white light that exploded against the black of his eyelids. He felt himself falling and grabbed the rope that attached the hook to the rafters.

Breathing heavy, he watched Archer prowl around him. It occurred to him as overkill for the marine to look for a vulnerable spot. There was nothing McGee could do to defend himself.

"Archer, if you'll just listen to me for a minute --"

In answer, Archer executed a perfect round-house kick to McGee's side. McGee arched in pain and tried to reach for his ribs. Losing his grip on the only thing that anchored him, he fell to his knees. Arms above his head, he trembled with the realization of how vulnerable he was. When he saw Archer brace himself, then whip around with lethal force, aiming for his ribs, McGee closed his eyes and screamed.

***

Gibbs pulled into Mr. Archer's driveway just as his phone rang. Caller ID identified Tony's number. Gibbs turned off the car and answered.

"Boss, I've found something interesting about Mr. Archer. The father, not the son."

"What'd you find?"

"Seems Archer, Sr. has pulled his son out of more trouble than he let on. Juvenile records are sealed, but I talked to Michael Archer's probation officer. Little Michael stayed in trouble, in and out of Juvy Hall from age 15 to 17. When faced with an adult sentence, and a no-nonsense Judge, he straightened up his act and joined the Marines."

"That a fact?" Gibbs opened the door and got out of the car.

"Yep. And that's not all. Two years ago, Michael was up for assault and battery. Charges were dropped because the witness refused to testify. Nine months ago he was charged again. This time, the witness was relocated to another assignment before Archer could go to trial. Scuttlebutt says Archer, Sr. paid off both the witness, and the Judge. Ziva's been going through the Archer's financial records, and all accounts are nearly bone dry. Large amounts have been withdrawn on dates coinciding with the silenced and relocated witnesses."

"Any word from McGee?"

"Nope. Is his car still at the Archers? But, you're there, so you wouldn't be asking if you knew where he was, would you, Boss?"

Gibbs disconnected the call and walked to the house. He noticed what appeared to be a car parked under an awning, covered with a tarp. One corner, folded inward, revealed part of the car's bumper and rear end. The worry in his gut flipped into concern when Gibbs recognized the color and make matching the sedan McGee had been driving. Not willing to jump to conclusions yet, Gibbs knocked.

He waited, then knocked again. "Mr. Archer. It's NCIS."

His patience was finally rewarded when the elder Mr. Archer opened the door. Eyes downcast, he leaned heavily on the door and barely cut his gaze upward at Gibbs. "What do you want? Can't you people leave me alone?"

Uninvited, Gibbs carefully pushed his way into the house. Mr. Archer moved out of his way despite the older man's obvious unease of allowing Gibbs through the door.

"My son's not here, Agent Gibbs. There's nothing here for you."

Ignoring Mr. Archer, Gibbs glanced around the room and ducked his head, trying to look through to the kitchen. Archer shuffled past him awkwardly, reaching for the back of a chair to lean against, blocking Gibbs from entering the kitchen.

"Where's your cane?"

Archer's eyes widened with the question. "I – I left it in the bedroom. I don't need it while I'm here in the house."

Gibbs stopped his visual search of the room and focused his eyes on Mr. Archer. The scrutiny seemed to unnerve the older man. "That's not what Agent McGee told me."

Archer's eyes darted from left to right. "Agent McGee's not here."

Gibbs casually brushed past Archer and walked into the kitchen. "I know." The bottoms of his shoes seemed to want to slide on the floor. He squatted down and ran his fingertips across the linoleum, then rubbed them together. Standing up, Gibbs turned to face Archer. "But his car's still here." Before Archer could protest, Gibbs lifted his chin toward the direction he knew McGee's car to be hidden. "It's parked outside your house. You want to tell me why you're trying to hide it under a tarp?" Moving in close, Gibbs squinted and stared Archer straight in the eye. "Where's Agent McGee?"

Archer refused to answer. His chin quivered and his thin lips pressed together.

Gibbs took a step closer. "Your son is a murderer, Mr. Archer. I realize you want to protect him, but you can't buy this one away. He's gone too far this time. Now tell me – where is my agent?"

Archer opened his mouth, but instead of answering, he gasped. Clutching one hand to his chest, he reached out with the other as he fell. Gibbs caught him and lowered him gently to the floor. Supporting his head with one hand, he reached for his phone with the other, dialed 911, and called for help.

Archer gasped and opened his eyes. His breathing was labored, his eyes glazed over. "M-Michael's a g-good boy. I just –" Pain clenched across his face. He stiffened and groaned.

"Easy, take it easy. Help's on the way."

He swallowed and opened his eyes. Moisture gathered and streamed down the side of his face, following the myriad creases and crevices etched into his features. "He – He took your agent – to – old --"

Gibbs leaned in close. "Where did he take him, Mr. Archer?"

Archer's eyes closed. He groaned softly. His body relaxed against the floor and he seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Alarmed, Gibbs pressed his palm against the side of his face. "Mr. Archer? Let me help your son. Where did he take McGee?"

Blue eyes opened, but Gibbs doubted Archer could see him anymore. "Take c-care of him. Don't h-hurt him, p-please."

A siren's thin wail pierced the distance. Gibbs felt Archer's life ebbing away. He knew the old man would be gone before the ambulance could arrive.

"Where is he, Mr. Archer?"

"Old home – old farm. Knoxville. Knoxville." Archer's eyes closed. "P-please, don't h--" With a gentle sign, his breath left him and his body melted soft and lax against the floor.

Gibbs shook his head, frustrated with an old man's love for a son who didn't deserve it. But then again, who had shaped Michael Archer into the man he'd become? Unwilling to think ill of a man who'd just died in his arms, Gibbs stood up and went to the door to signal the ambulance driver pulling into the driveway. He pulled out his phone and called Tony.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Archer's dead."

"Boss .. you didn't --?"

Exasperated, Gibbs cut him off. "No, Tony, I didn't kill him. The old man had a heart attack. But he told me where his son took McGee. I need the location of the family's old home or farm in Knoxville. I'm headed there in about 2 minutes. You and Ziva join me there."

It took Gibbs less than two minutes to wrap things up at the Archer house. He was in his car and fifteen minutes down the road when Tony called with directions. Hanging up, he pressed his foot against the gas, pushing the car faster. Hang on, McGee. We're coming.

***