King Me
By OughtaKnowBetter
"DiNozzo!" Gibbs bellowed from behind the crate. "DiNozzo! Do not—I repeat, do not!—get your ass kicked, or I swear I will send you to Kings Point every weekend for a month!"
A bullet whizzed by Tony DiNozzo's head, almost giving him a reason to see his hair stylist on an emergency visit. He pulled back, stuck out his own handgun and aimed a return bullet in the general direction of the foe. "Easy for him to say," he grunted sourly to McGee crouched next to him. "He's not the one who has to take Abby there to testify."
McGee flattened himself against his own crate, praying that the wood would be stout enough to prevent the bullets from smashing through the fibers into his back. He waited for the noise to diminish and a break in the hail of lead. "I don't see what's so bad about taking Abby—"
"You ever been to Kings Point, McGee?"
"No, but—"
"You go, and you'll see what's so bad about it." DiNozzo tried to send off another message to the enemy, something in the realm of 'surrender, Dorothy', and cursed when he realized that the clip was empty. "It would almost be worth it to get shot, just so I don't have to go." He fumbled for another clip, ramming it home so that he could continue to defend himself.
McGee fired twice during the interlude, and huddled behind his crate while the enemy fired back, watching DiNozzo ram the other clip home. "You've been there? Kings Point, I mean."
"Damn right, I have. Before your time, McWet-Behind-The-Ears. Ziva's, too."
"It's that bad?"
"Worse," DiNozzo groaned. "Damn. How soon are they gonna run out of bullets?"
"It sounds like it's letting up." Another flurry of shots made talking impossible for six long seconds. McGee winced. "Or not. What was in Kings Point?"
DiNozzo viciously fired another singleton, more as an expression of annoyance than for any hope of improving the odds. "A bunch of years ago. It was me, and Gibbs, and a couple of yo-yo's who have since moved on. Somebody killed a girl in the back woods somewhere, tried to use some navy slob for an alibi."
"Gibbs cleared him?"
"Not exactly. Turned out the navy guy was busy conducting his own criminal acts at the time. Gibbs took him down without breaking a sweat. Then he got Bosley to go out to testify on behalf of NCIS—I think it was right before Bos retired—and Abby got called to present the forensic evidence for the Kings Point case. I got roped into escort duty."
"They put the guy away?"
"A Gibbs case? You better believe it, Probie." DiNozzo frowned. "What the hell is Ziva doing? She trying to get herself killed?"
"Where is she?"
"Up on top of the crates." DiNozzo didn't gesture at the Israeli officer, for fear of drawing attention to her. "A little closer…little closer…Got you, piece of pond scum! Way to go, Ziva!"
"Exit one bad guy," McGee observed. "Now, how about the other five?" He returned to the topic. "I take it that Kings Point isn't a popular hotspot."
"You know those polls that rate a town entertainment value by the number of bowling alleys and paintball playgrounds?"
"Yeah."
"That's Kings Point. Bowling alleys. Beer joints; not a single decent night club for fifty miles around. Their idea"—bang!—"of a good meal is ribs and beans."
"Tony, the art of making ribs—"
"Is highly over-rated, Probie. Ribs are good, but give me a bottle of wine, a French chef—gotcha', you little bugger!" DiNozzo blew gently and artistically over the top of his handgun. "There's a reason that I live in the big bad city, McGeek, and it has something to do with the fact that I like it. Why couldn't Gibbs send you along with Ziva to escort Abby?"
McGee added his own contribution to the firefight, and shrugged. "Why don't you ask him, Tony?"
"Get real, McFanciful." DiNozzo snorted. "What are the odds of two cases ending up in Kings Point? Two completely unrelated cases. No, I take that back; everyone is related in Kings Point. They're all cousins, and they're all inbred," he snarled. "And they're all involved in crime." He huddled behind his crate.
McGee aimed another round. "Why doesn't Gibbs do the escort duty? I thought he liked tiny little rural towns."
"Not as much as his boat, Probie."
"Oh. Right." McGee frowned, pulling back to safety. "Missed."
"Don't miss again, McGee. I'm getting tired of this gig."
"Me, too. Is the SWAT Team getting here any time soon?"
"Sure hope so. I heard they've been cutting their arrival time by a third."
"Big deal. That means that they arrive in forty minutes instead of an hour."
"Yeah." DiNozzo lapsed into an annoyed silence, a lack of sound that was interrupted some three to six times per second by gunfire.
"You think the boss'll get tired of waiting?"
"I think Ziva will get tired of waiting."
DiNozzo was right. The next thing they heard was a female voice, heavily laced with exasperation.
"If you don't put down your weapon now, I will shoot you in the back of your neck."
There was a heavy pause in the action. DiNozzo chanced a look around his shielding crate to see Ziva with a heavy handgun in her hands, the muzzle aimed at one of the suspects at a distance that all but guaranteed a fatal shot if the suspect decided not to cooperate.
He saw something else, too: another suspect, creeping up on her from behind. He opened his mouth to shout out a warning—then relaxed.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Gibbs said calmly to the second suspect. "I don't think I can miss from here."
It was over. The rest laid down their weapons and surrendered.
"Anybody got any smaller handcuffs?" DiNozzo grumbled, locking the manacles around the suspect's wrists. The man that he had charge of was the shortest of the group, neatly clipped hair now grimy with sweat. Gibbs surveyed the man with distaste; clearly getting chased into an abandoned warehouse for a frenzied shoot out had not been on the suspect's plans for the evening. So sorry, really ought to have planned better. He tightened his lips, and DiNozzo snorted, the senior field agent keeping a restraining hand on the man's arm so that he couldn't escape the iron fetters without notice. "Just don't try anything, Jones," DiNozzo advised the man. "I don't feel like chasing you down, not at this time of night, and I'm faster than you are."
"This was entrapment!" Farland Jones objected. "I want a lawyer! You can't do this to me—"
"Can, and will," Gibbs advised him dryly, keeping an eye on the monster of a man that Ziva had subdued. McGee had taken charge of the other two, both clutching leg wounds and waiting for the medics to get to them for a detour through an emergency room before hollering for their own legal representatives. Gibbs eyed DiNozzo. At least you made through a fire fight without collecting a bullet. "You're still on escort duty to Kings Point, DiNozzo."
"I know, boss." DiNozzo didn't even attempt a smile. Gibbs would have seen through it, would administer a head-whack at the slightest provocation. "Both bags are already packed. Ready to leave in the morning."
"Me, too, Gibbs," Ziva added. "It's not as though I require much, for a three day trip. A single bag will suffice," she added in a clear snipe at her fellow agent's travel habits.
"Good," Gibbs grunted. "Let's move 'em out." He cocked his head, listening. "Hah."
"SWAT Team?" Ziva couldn't help but ask.
"Right on time," DiNozzo opined. He tapped Jones on the shoulder. "After you. Down the steps. Don't trip, or I may have to let you fall down the stairs and break your neck."
"You wish," Jones sneered. "I'm gonna sue your ass. You're gonna be out of a job so fast that you'll never know what hit you. Hope you got a lot of cash in your piggy bank, 'cause you're gonna need all of it to exist on bread and water."
"Less talk, more walk," DiNozzo advised him. "Move."
Jones's mouth continued to flap as DiNozzo guided him out through the door to the long flight of steps leading down to the nighttime air outside. "Look, I'm gonna give you a break this time. You cut me loose now, before this goes any further, and I won't sue you, okay?"
"Hah. You were shooting at me, genius. Any jury is going to take one look at the evidence, and they'll throw away the key. Try again."
Jones did. He changed his tune. "How about a deal, man? You can work me a deal? I know people; lots of people. I can give you dealers. Big dealers, really big."
DiNozzo pretended to consider. "Keep walking, Jones."
Jones stepped down the stairs, sensing an opening. "I know people, man. I know where they drop, who the connections are—"
He misstepped. Jones half-turned to try to put more earnestness into his voice and pleading into his face and missed the stair tread entirely. With his hands cuffed behind him, he had no way to stop himself from falling.
DiNozzo lunged to catch him. His hand was already on Jones's arm, and only required a tightening of the fingers to secure his hold on his suspect.
Jones didn't realize that. He twisted, trying to save himself, and only succeeded in throwing his rescuer off balance.
They both went down.
DiNozzo yelled, hitting his shoulder against the rickety railing that did next to nothing to provide for safety in the warehouse. He grabbed for a hand hold and found nothing. Jones toppled head first down the long flight of stairs, DiNozzo tangled up with him, both bumping every third step until they came to rest with a thud on the concrete landing below.
Neither one moved.
"DiNozzo!" Gibbs shoved his own suspect toward Ziva, trusting the Mossad officer to keep both men under control. He took the steps two at a time, dashing toward the pair at the bottom of the stairs.
Jones was the first to wake, and to talk. "He pushed me!" Jones accused. "You saw him! He pushed me! I'm gonna sue—"
"Shut up!" Gibbs snarled. "DiNozzo! Wake up!"
Nothing. Eyes shut, body limp, muscles slack. Out cold.
Gibbs felt for a pulse, almost panicking before he felt the slow throb against his fingertips. He looked back up the stairs at the other two NCIS agents, watching him with wide eyes. Gibbs wasted no time. "Get the medics here now."
Odd feeling, this.
Almost but not quite aware of what's going on around me. Jones, hollering his lungs out, asking for his lawyer. Good thing I can't really hear what's he's saying. Administering a Gibbs-style head-whack to the guy is really what he needs, never mind that it would earn me a reprimand from above if I'm lucky and a lawsuit if Jones gets his way.
Still…
Can't move my arms. Not quite sure why. They just don't seem to be working particularly well at the moment. Legs are pretty inept, too. I've seen jello that moved better than me right now.
Ziva is peering down at me. How in the name of all that's holy did she get to be so tall?
Oh…I'm flat on my back. What the hell am I doing on my back? Head hurts like a mother…
Gibbs's mouth is moving. Not much in the way of sound coming out. Maybe if I concentrate on his lips I can figure out what he's saying over the roaring in my ears. Face sliding in and out of focus…C'mon, I don't need reading glasses yet. I'm not that old…
Crap, my head hurts. Stop shining that damn light in my eyes!
Hurts to think. I think a short little nap is what I need right now. Don't think I've got much choice in the matter…
"Concussion." Gibbs let his gaze follow the wheeled stretcher as the medics loaded it into the back of the ambulance. "He'll be okay." It was a statement. It was a command. It was a promise that Leroy Jethro Gibbs was determined to find a way to make come true if he had to go to hell and back.
Unfortunately, the ambulance was only going to head toward the nearest Emergency Department. Hell was not part of the route, and nothing was going to interfere with getting Gibbs's senior field agent to medical care as quickly as possible, because Gibbs himself was going to ride shotgun.
In the meantime, there was a battlefield to take control of. The SWAT team had outdone themselves, arriving in a bare thirty minutes, proving that they had been working on their response time. They were now milling around, shouting orders to each other and growling over who was in charge. Gibbs didn't have time for this. "McGee!" he growled.
"Boss?"
It was either McGee or Ziva, and Gibbs wasn't in the mood to clean up what would be left if the SWAT team got into a pissing contest with the Mossad officer. "McGee, you're in charge. Have a couple of these men escort those two over to County Medical; get 'em cleared for jail and charge 'em with assault. You and Ziva take Jones and the rest into custody and let 'em sit in a cell until morning; we'll figure out the rest of the charges then. I'm going with DiNozzo."
"Right." McGee paused. "He gonna be all right, boss?"
Gibbs glared. "Do I look like a doctor, McGee?"
"Uh…no, boss?"
Gibbs clambered into the ambulance, seating himself on the bench along the side so that he could watch DiNozzo breathe. "Just get those bastards back to NCIS and put 'em on ice. Oh, and McGee?"
"Yes, boss?"
"Pack your bag. You're taking DiNozzo's place, escorting Abby along with Ziva. Don't make a mess of it."
McGee gulped. "Uh, no, boss."
"Good." Gibbs rapped on the side of the van. "Let's get this wagon moving."
Crap.
Gibbs is gonna kill me.
Probably a blessing. The way my head is feeling, it would be a mercy killing.
Gibbs is gonna kill me. What the hell happened? Everything is a blank. I remember getting ready to take down a bunch of slimeballs, guy named Jones. Then what?
Oh, yeah. Shoot out. Got through that okay; remember Gibbs threatening me about stopping a bullet. Not gonna get out of taking Abby to Kings Point.
What the hell happened?
"Yes, Agent Gibbs, he's going to be fine. His periods of consciousness are growing longer and longer, and he's starting to remember what happened. We're just going to keep him overnight as a precaution."
Not a voice I recognize. Female, non-threatening, authoritative. My superior powers of deductive reasoning tell me that a) something happened at the shoot out and b) that's a doctor talking to Gibbs.
Crap. Gibbs is gonna kill me if I don't get my ass up in time to get Abby over to Kings Point to testify.
"Thanks, doc."
Now that's a voice I recognize: Gibbs. Cool, calm, and collected; just like he's in from an evening stroll. Hah; an evening stroll armed with enough firepower to take down Al Capone.
I am so in trouble. Better do something about it, fast.
"I can take Abby…"
"What's that, DiNozzo?"
Crap, I knew the words didn't come out. Better try again.
"I can—"
Crap. Crap. Somebody grabbing me, rolling me over. Like I have a snowball's chance in hell of doing something about it. Crap, I hate this. And in front of Gibbs, too. Can it get any worse?
"Get him over on his side, so he doesn't aspirate. Jess, would you get him twenty five of prochlorperazine? Let's see if we can make him more comfortable. Don't worry, Agent Gibbs, throwing up like this is fairly normal with concussion."
"Seen it before."
I'll just bet you have, boss, but not from me. Ruins the image.
"Why don't you go home now, Agent Gibbs, and let Mr. DiNozzo get some rest?" the female voice suggested. "I'll plan on discharging him in the morning, when he feels better. Does he have any family that he can stay with for a day or so?"
Not the Welsh Corgis from hell! Not the Welsh Corgis from hell!
"I'll arrange something," Gibbs promised.
Crap!
"Excellent. Why don't you step outside, Agent Gibbs? Let the nurse administer something to make him feel better."
Yeah. Feeling better would be really good right about now. Anything would be better than heaving my guts out.
Maybe not—while I normally like having someone female and attractive grabbing my butt, this is not quite the way I imagined—
Ow!