Tony DiNozzo sat at his desk with the calm appearance of someone who was not at all fazed by the announcement just made by the newly appointed Director Vance. He, Ziva, and McGee had just been reassigned, all to separate areas. They wouldn't even be within visiting distance, with Ziva heading back to Israel and he himself being assigned as an agent afloat aboard an aircraft carrier. For about the eighth time he mentally kicked himself for turning down Jenny's offer a year before for his own team in Spain. If he had taken the promotion, he wouldn't be packing up his desk just now to move to a Navy ship in the middle of some ocean. Not to mention that if he had taken her offer, a different agent would have been assigned to protect Jenny at the funeral, and that different agent might have listened to Ziva and saved the Director's life, rather than allowing her to be gunned down as he had.
He ran a hand through his hair and tossed the contents of his top drawer into the box so graciously provided by Director Vance. He wondered what to do with the locked box of Gibbs' medals in his bottom drawer, and very nearly asked Gibbs himself, but the man had such a scowl on his face that Tony was actual speechless. Gibbs was very angrily typing up some report or another on his computer, and the ferocity with which his fingers connected with the keyboard almost made Tony feel sorry for the piece of technology.
He looked over at Ziva, not nearly as composed as she too packed up her desk in preparation to leave. He thought he might have heard her sniffle, but decided that it was definitely in his best interest not to ask. As he watched the pretty Mossad officer emptying the drawers of her belongings, he noticed the elevator doors open behind her. Immediately, the person stepping out of them had his immediate attention.
It was a woman. By Tony's guess she was in her late twenties. She stood about five foot eight, in the Puma brand sneakers that she wore. She had on a pair of light-coloured jeans that were slightly distressed on one knee and the opposite upper thigh, and a purple University tee that proclaimed her loyalty to Mustang Football. She had long, dark brown hair that flowed in loose, natural curls, and big brown eyes that displayed a combination of life and intelligence. Of course, what really captured Tony's attention was the way her jeans framed her cute butt and the way her chest strained slightly against the confines of the tee, and her slim athletic figure. She didn't even glance at him as she walked past his desk with deliberate strides.
"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," she said slowly, with the slightest hint of an accent that Tony couldn't quite identify. Montana, perhaps.
"Jo Markham," Gibbs responded, looking up and very nearly grinning as he saw her. "Only you could waltz into NCIS headquarters in jeans and a tee-shirt and not look out of place." He got up from the desk and met her in front of it.
"Takes a lot of practice. It's been a long time, Jethro," she grinned, kissing his cheek.
"Eight years," he answered, returning her gesture. "What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you played in the big leagues now?"
"I need to speak with you," she responded, seriously. "Privately. Is your usual conference room still available?"
Gibbs nodded and took her arm, leading her to the elevator. Ziva and Tony looked at each other the moment the doors closed, and they wore matching expressions; confusion.
"Do you think that since we are not his team anymore, that we can be curious about what is going on in there?" Ziva asked.
"You can feel curiosity," Tony decided, "But I wouldn't let Gibbs know about it if you want to make it back to Israel in one piece.
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"What is this about, Jo?" said Jethro, his usual attitude back in his voice.
"Jenny," she answered, leaning against the wall of the stalled elevator.
"Jenny's dead," he said sharply.
"I watch the news, Jethro," she tossed back. "I just thought you should see these." She pulled an envelope out of her back pocket and handed it to him. He stared at her a long moment before opening the envelope and pulling out a stack of photos. He sucked in an involuntary breath as he looked at the top one.
It was Jenny Sheppard, standing in a cell-like room that was dimly lit. Dirty bandages wrapped her upper left arm, and her right shoulder. She wore a hospital gown, covered in dirt and splotches of blood. Her hair was matted and filthy, and she had cuts on her forehead, a split lip, and one black eye. There were four photos. In three of them she was looking down or had her eyes closed, but in one her pretty blue eyes stared into the camera, looking scared and lost. Gibbs was at a loss for words.
"Are these doctored?" he asked, sharply.
"My techs say no," she answered, meeting his eyes.
"Where did you get these?"
"They came in this morning. Suspected terrorist cell on the West coast."
"They're claiming she's alive?"
"Yup."
"What's the ransom demand? What do they want?" he was right in her space now, inches from her face, desperate.
"They made no demands. It seems they want nothing from the U.S. government."
"That doesn't make sense. Even if Jenny were still alive, why would they send these to you if they're not making ransom demands?" he asked.
"I didn't say they sent them to us. I said they came in this morning. They were picked up on chatter. It seems this particular cell is holding an auction."
"What is for sale?" he asked.
"Jenny. To the highest bidder."
"What? Why? Who would want to buy her when she's not up for ransom?" he asked, almost daring to hope that his Jenny actually could be alive, despite knowing different.
"She's the director of a federal agency, Gibbs. Or at least she was. She knew all kinds of classified information. If she were still alive, they could auction her off to any number of people or agencies internationally. She'd be tortured for information, and this terrorist cell would have funding for whatever op they're planning right here in the United States," Jo said, meeting his glare with a fierce determination of her own.
"That would almost be plausible," he admitted after a moment. "But since she knows so much, wouldn't we be prepared to top any high bid anyway, to keep our secrets out of enemy hands?"
"And that may be their plan. But I doubt it. In case you've forgotten, we don't negotiate with terrorists."
"It really doesn't matter anyway. Jen's dead. My people found her body, Ducky did the autopsy, and I was at her funeral."
"Did you see her body?" Jo asked.
"I didn't want to see her like that, Joanna," he admitted, sounding defeated.
"You loved her," Jo answered softly, staring at the floor.
"A lot of things have changed since we worked together in Paris."
"I know, Jethro. She left. I was there, I remember. But that doesn't change anything, does it?" she asked.
"Maybe not, but her being dead sure does," he said with finality, bringing the elevator to life again. Jo reached out and pressed the emergency stop again.
"Hear me out, Jethro. My team ran every possible test on those photos, and we had the digital originals to go by! They weren't doctored by any traceable program. And I saw the original scene report from L.A.; these wounds match exactly where she was shot. No one else had access to this information, Jethro. The only copy of that report ever made is under lock and key in the Pentagon. Only a handful of
people have read it. If you haven't seen her body, how can you really be sure that these pictures aren't of Jenny?"
"Because I refuse to believe that she's been suffering there the last two weeks while we've been mourning her death. If the body downstairs wasn't hers, Ducky would have told me."
"Maybe. But I think it warrants a conversation with Dr. Mallard. If there is something weird going on, do you really want to leave her there?" Jo asked, meeting his fierce blue eyes with a challenge. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before pressing the button and allowing the elevator to shudder back to life. Jo stayed silent, but a grim smile spread across her face as he selected the floor that would take them to Autopsy.