Note added 8/2017: This novel was never finished, and has been removed from the site. This chapter will stay up to maintain links for those with story alerts, in case is it ever completed. The author apologizes to those who were hoping for an ending: The author was hoping for one too.
Jihad - Prologue
[Before the Credits Roll]
by joykatleen
She lay in the dark closet on a nest of blankets and silently prayed. She prayed that she would stay safe. She prayed that Allah would show her a way out of this. She prayed that somehow it would all work out. That she would survive.
She could never have imagined it would come to this. Things had been going so well. She'd managed to have her own life, despite her destiny. Despite what her family wanted for her. Despite what her father demanded of her. Then, without warning, this.
She liked her life. That part of it, anyway. It was fun, going out with her friends, experiencing the world. It was so much more than she could have ever imagined, back home.
When they first arrived here, she'd been so afraid. So many things were new and different. So much freedom to be had. She'd thought at first that she would surely be condemned to jahannam for just being here, so close to so many who violated the Law. But after a while, after she'd started school here, after she'd met girls whose lives weren't ruled by Sharia, things had changed. She couldn't have said when it happened, but it did. She began to understand that these girls her father called harlots were good girls. Most of them, anyway. That there was nothing wicked about them, or about their understanding of God. That there was nothing evil or improper about allowing yourself to be seen by men. That most men were not so easily corrupted that the bare arm of a woman, or a glimpse of dark hair, would cause them to lose their faith. That Purdah was a custom, not a commandment from Allah.
She'd learned to live two lives. At home, around Father, she was the perfect Sharia daughter. She kept quiet, she wore her chador, she learned to care for a family. At school, and whenever she could sneak away, she let her hair out, she wore American clothes, she laughed and enjoyed a world Father would never understand.
Last spring, she'd met a boy. At a football game. They had lunch together, she watched him practice from the bleachers while pretending to study. She snuck out to meet him at the park, at the mall, for ice cream after school. He took her to a movie on base one night, though she was so nervous about getting caught, she hadn't been able to enjoy the show. Over the summer, they snuck out together more often. They went to afternoon matinees, to visit the museums in Washington, all under the guise of school enrichment activities with friends. Female friends, under male adult supervision, she told Father when he asked. They got serious, and she got her first kiss. School started again, they went to the homecoming dance together. Which was when it happened. Turns out, when it all happened.
Father was furious when he caught her trying to sneak back in so many hours after he thought she was in her room. And to catch her in a short shirt, with bare legs, and bare head… he'd – in American terms – freaked out. He'd beaten her, though not nearly as badly as he would have had they been at home, she knew that. Then he'd locked her in her room for a week. She hadn't even been allowed to go to school. She'd eventually convinced him that she had seen the error of her ways, that she had recommitted herself to her faith. He'd let her go back, but made her walk to and from class with her brother. Her younger brother. It was humiliating.
Nonetheless, at least she'd been able to resume her life. A measure of it, anyway. She was far more careful about her choices. She still hung around with her friends, still occasionally slipped away to the mall, made deals with her brother to leave her alone and say nothing to Father.
She'd longed for the day when she'd be able to escape into America, to fully embrace the land and the culture she was growing to love. She'd resigned herself to living out her childhood as a prisoner to her culture, and declaring her freedom as soon as she was of age.
But then, this. This was more than she could handle on her own. She knew that. She just didn't know what to do.
She heard the approach of heavy footsteps and held her breath. The steps paused outside the closet door and she prayed they would pass her by. A moment, then the steps receded. She breathed again. It would be alright. She silently prayed. Allah willing, it would be alright.
When the closet door was suddenly flung open, and the warrior with his barking dog reached for her, she couldn't help it: She screamed.
Chapter One - Missing
"Gear up, people," Supervisory Special Agent Gibbs called as he jogged down the stairs from the upper level of the squad room at the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, a cup of coffee in one hand. It was a beautiful late spring morning in Washington D.C. and the sun was blazing through the skylights above his head. Not for the first time, Gibbs wondered how the architect of this government building had managed to slip that feature past the penny pinchers at the government accounting office.
NCIS was the Navy's law enforcement arm. The civilian agency was tasked with investigating and defeating criminal, terrorist, and foreign intelligence threats to the United States Navy and Marine Corps, wherever they operated, ashore or afloat. To accomplish this, NCIS had agents on bases and ships all over the world. The most elite of these agents were assigned to the Major Case Response Teams, and the best of those teams was housed aboard the Washington Navy Yard under the direction of veteran team leader Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Gibbs and his team – three other agents, a forensic specialist and a medical examiner – handled significant criminal cases affecting Navy interests in the Capitol region. This put them in contact with politicians and government types far more frequently than any of them liked. But it couldn't be helped: Such was the nature of Washington. Like the case he'd just been given by the agency director. Not their usual fare, but when the Secretary of the Navy said 'jump,' even veteran agents tended to ask 'how high?'
Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was the first to respond. "What'da we got, Boss? Death and destruction? Foiled terrorist plot? The crime of the century?" Gibbs' second in command sounded ridiculously eager. Things had been slow since they'd closed their most recent case a few days earlier. And even that one had been pretty run-of-the-mill.
DiNozzo was tall, lean and TV-star handsome, a former college jock who hid his intelligence behind a series of constantly shifting personas. There were times when Gibbs thought DiNozzo might have a touch of schizophrenia in him, in a good way. For reasons sometimes job-related and sometimes known only to himself, DiNozzo could range in attitude, action and wardrobe from high-end professional businessman to minimum wage street player, from college professor to high-school class clown. His default persona was that of a skirt-chasing frat boy. It put people at ease and often made them underestimate his abilities, which was usually the point.
This week, it was old-school fed: Dark suit, white shirt, thin dark tie, hair carefully slicked down. But if you looked closely, you'd see that the suit was expertly tailored, and the price tag on his shoes alone was more than the average fed made in a week.
Despite his constantly changing façade, Gibbs knew the real Tony DiNozzo to be quick on his feet both physically and mentally. He was an incredible investigator, often catching things the rest of his team – even Gibbs himself – completely missed. His often unorthodox way of getting people to open up had led to him closing more than his share of the team's cases. The two men had been working together as team leader and second for more than ten years now, and Gibbs could predict what DiNozzo would do in a professional situation to a near 100-percent certainty. For this reason and others, DiNozzo was one of only a few people alive today in which Gibbs placed his full faith and trust.
Unfortunately, DiNozzo was also the type who needed regular infusions of adrenalin to keep his blood flowing. And if he didn't get it from cases, he'd look for excitement elsewhere. Usually at the expense of his teammates' sanity. Gibbs figured this case wasn't going to fit the bill.
"Teenage daughter of a contract instructor at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling didn't come home from school last night," Gibbs announced to his team as he rounded his own desk and pulled open the right hand drawer to retrieve his holstered sidearm. He slipped the holster on over his belt, then adjusted his dark chinos so the weapon sat comfortably. He'd been carrying the Sig Sauer P-228 for so many years, it was as normal a part of his pocket gear as his wallet and keys. Gibbs glanced at his overcoat, lying atop a short bookcase behind his desk, and rejected it. The early-morning drive in had been cold enough for the coat. But as was common this time of year, the temperature had quickly risen to cool and comfortable. His customary sport coat over polo shirt would be plenty. Gibbs patted his breast pocket to be sure he had his glasses, grabbed his backpack and his coffee and started toward the elevator, knowing his team would be in his wake.
"It was only last night that she did not return home?" Ziva David asked. Though she had been on Gibbs' team for more than seven years, she'd become an NCIS special agent less than two years ago. Before that, she'd been a liaison officer for Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency. The change had come when Ziva was faced with a choice between continuing to obey the questionable orders of her father – the director of Mossad – or proving her loyalty to her adopted county. She'd chosen America. Within a year of cutting off contact with her father, she had become both an agent and an American citizen. At barely 5'7, she was much smaller than the male agents on the team, who all hovered around six feet tall. Though Gibbs could hardly admit that he noticed, her long dark hair, sultry eyes, high cheekbones and beautiful smile were a feast for any red-blooded American male. In the right dress, she looked like she belonged on the runways of Paris or Milan. Today, she was wearing dark pants and a dark blue peasant blouse, her hair up in a ponytail. In that ensemble, she certainly didn't look like a highly-trained interrogator and assassin. But he'd seen her take on a drug-crazed Marine and win, and Gibbs himself had once come up second best in a fight he'd accidentally gotten into with her while she was blind and deaf from the effects of a flash-bang grenade. Thinking of the injury she'd inflicted upon him – and the surgery he'd had to endure to repair the damage – made his knee twitch. Though it had been a couple years before, he still remembered the pain.
"Don't we usually wait a few days before we get involved in searching for missing teenagers?" the final agent on Gibbs' team asked. Timothy McGee was a techno-geek born and bred. He was an MIT graduate who had always seemed more comfortable in the background than on the front lines. Even his wardrobe reflected that: He tended toward plain suits in tan, brown and khaki, white shirts, and when he wore a tie, it was always solids or stripes. Occasionally – like today – he mixed it up with a dark shirt under his tan jacket. McGee's style of dress was plain, inexpensive, durable. Kind of like the man himself.
McGee's experience in the digital world had proved invaluable to the team – and to Gibbs personally – on many cases. In the almost eight years since he'd joined Gibbs' team, McGee had saved them over and over by pulling the proverbial rabbit out of his virtual hat. It was something Gibbs could always count on. Lately, though, McGee had proven himself more than capable in other areas as well. He didn't have the speed and intuition of DiNozzo, or the stealth and fighting ability of David, but Gibbs would take McGee as backup any day. And there was still no one Gibbs trusted more with the gathering of information.
"A minor between the ages of 14 and 17 must be missing a minimum of 72 hours before we will open a case, unless the minor falls into the category of 'critical missing,' or there is evidence of foul play," David quoted the regulation as they stepped onto the elevator.
"Correct, Special Agent David," Gibbs said.
"Is there evidence of foul play?" DiNozzo asked.
"No," Gibbs said.
"Is she a critical missing?" McGee asked. The term was used for people with medical conditions, special needs, or other indicators that they may come to unusual harm on their own.
"Nope," Gibbs said.
"Then why are we opening a case?" David asked.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open on the main floor to reveal a bearded man in a plain suit blocking the exit.
"Tobias," Gibbs said.
"Jethro," FBI Supervisory Special Agent Tobias Fornell responded. He didn't get out of the way. Gibbs looked him up and down. Fornell had been off the radar for a while, some undercover thing if Gibbs remembered right. He'd grown a full beard for the operation, and while the beard and Fornell's receding hair were still darker than Gibbs' almost total gray, it wouldn't be many more years before the men would be a matching pair. Fornell's suit was off-the-rack, his tie a bright green that was very unusual for him.
"Nice tie," Gibbs said, a touch of sarcasm flavoring his tone. He pushed forward out of the elevator, giving Fornell no choice but to step aside.
"Emily gave me this tie," Fornell said to his back, referring to his almost 11-year-old daughter. "It's silk. She saved up her allowance for two months. Said the color matches my eyes."
"Your eyes are brown," DiNozzo pointed out helpfully as the rest of them moved past him. Fornell ignored him.
"I'm guessing you heard from your director?" he said to Gibbs, following the agents through the doors and out into the spring sun.
"On our way now. You in on this?"
"Observing only. The kid is technically a Navy dependent, which makes it yours. But the father insisted the FBI be involved and my director agreed it was within our charter. Not that we want it. Hence the 'observation' role. Between my director and yours, they decided my excellent working relationship with NCIS made me the best choice to make sure your team was doing it right."
"Meaning you were the only one they were pretty sure I wouldn't shoot," Gibbs said.
"I always knew you secretly spoke bureaucrat," Fornell smiled.
Fornell and Gibbs had known one another a long time. They'd worked together frequently over the years, getting each other in and out of trouble with their respective bosses while generally trying to stay out each other's way. In recent years they'd become friends. Mostly since Fornell married – and then divorced – Gibbs' second ex-wife. Fornell's daughter Emily was the only good thing that had come out of that relationship, and Gibbs was her honorary Godfather. Not actually her Godfather, because their shared ex wouldn't hear of it. But both men knew that if anything ever happened to Fornell, Gibbs would step up.
"Why don't you enlighten my team as to why the FBI would be involved in the less than 18-hour disappearance of a teenager with no evidence of foul play," Gibbs said as they moved toward the staff parking lot and the dozen or more identical dark blue Dodge Chargers the agency used for routine transportation.
"Because she's been gone long enough to cross state lines," Fornell said. "Any suspected kidnapping crossing state lines becomes FBI jurisdiction."
"Washington is only ten miles across," McGee objected. "If she was gone more than 15 minutes she could have crossed state lines."
"Exactly," Fornell said, as if that meant something.
"Do we suspect a kidnapping?" Ziva asked.
"No," Fornell said. Ziva frowned her confusion.
"So why are either one of our agencies involved?" McGee asked.
"Because her father's got some sway," Gibbs said.
"And we live to serve," DiNozzo added.
They stopped at their assigned vehicle and Gibbs unlocked the doors. They dumped their gear in the trunk before DiNozzo took his chosen and rightful place in the front passenger seat, and the two younger agents got in the rear. Gibbs looked over the roof where Fornell was still standing.
"You have the address of the house?" Gibbs asked him.
"Yes," the FBI man said.
"We'll meet you there."
Fornell actually grinned. "You know Gibbs, they could drive themselves, and we could stop for coffee on the way."
"Already got coffee," Gibbs said and got into the driver's seat. He slammed the door shut on Fornell's smile, started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
"So what do we know, Boss?" DiNozzo asked a minute later as they merged into morning traffic.
"Summary's in your email," Gibbs said. Almost as one, his three agents pulled out smartphones and started tapping. Ziva was fastest.
"Amaya Aziz, just turned 16. A senior at the International Day School in the District."
"Isn't that where the President's girls go?" McGee asked, still working his phone.
"And the CNO's kids, and SecNav's grandkids, and SecDef's grandkids, and the children and grandchildren of a couple dozen diplomats and federal agency directors," DiNozzo supplied. "You can't throw a spitball without hitting a protection detail over there."
"Where were they yesterday when the girl disappeared?" Ziva asked.
"All details were contacted by Metro PD, and none reported anything unusual," Gibbs said. It had been part of his briefing in the director's office. "Every agency with a protectee attending the school declined to get involved unless a credible threat to their principal was identified."
DiNozzo put on the voice of a stadium announcer. "And the pass goes to NCIS, who carries it downfield, dodging left, rolling right..."
Gibbs reached over and delivered a light smack to the back of DiNozzo's head, not an easy maneuver in the car. But he'd had lots of practice.
"Sorry, Boss," DiNozzo said, clearly unrepentant.
"Ziva," Gibbs said.
"She gets a car service to and from school," David continued. "The driver reported she did not appear at the normal meeting spot yesterday afternoon. She and her brother usually walk to the car together. He arrived, she did not."
McGee picked it up. "She's reported to be an excellent student, no disciplinary problems, not so much as a tardy since she started attending Sophomore year. Excellent attendance, never missed a day for her first two years, absent a week last fall and one day last week. She's on the intramural girls soccer team, plays cello in the school orchestra, takes piano lessons after school from the music teacher. Few friends, reported to be quiet and kind of shy."
"The shy quiet ones are the ones you really have to keep an eye on," DiNozzo said from the passenger seat.
"You have anything valuable to add?" Gibbs asked. DiNozzo hid a grin.
"She's an Afghani citizen," DiNozzo said. "The family's been here almost three years. Father was a teacher at Kandahar University before the Taliban fell. He was hired by the Department of Defense to teach courses in culture and language to Afghanistan-bound Officers at the Naval College at Anacostia-Bolling. Two other children, a son Yameen who's a freshman at the same school, and a daughter Sadiyah, age seven, who's homeschooled. The brother claims the last time he saw Amaya was when he dropped her off at class after lunch."
"Dropped her off? Didn't you say he was younger?" Gibbs asked.
"He's 13," DiNozzo confirmed. Huh, Gibbs thought.
Ziva stepped in again. "Metro Police did a preliminary investigation last night in response to several calls from her father. They told the family that with no signs of foul play, they would not start a full investigation on an unaccounted for 16-year-old until she was missing 72 hours."
"Which brings us back to the question: Why are we starting an investigation?" DiNozzo asked.
"Because we live to serve," Gibbs repeated DiNozzo's earlier words.
to be continued...