Gibbs and the gang are assigned a rather unusual protection detail after the murder of a Marine Lieutenant by a group of military terrorists. Gibbs centric, but the whole team is there, even Vance. Case fic, no ships, and rated T for some language and violence.
As always, please read and review. I can handle constructive criticism quite well, and welcome the opportunity to better my writing skills, so please feel free to critique. I will do my best to add a new chapter every week.
Obviously NCIS and the recognizable characters therein don't belong to be- they just come over to play in my sandbox once in awhile. The only things I own are any non-canon characters, and the idea for the plot.
Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs glared at his ringing phone with all the contempt of a man interrupted. Snarling just a little, he snatched the offending device from his desk.
"Yeah," he demanded.
"Director Vance would like to see you in his office," Vance's secretary informed him.
"Tell him I'll be there in a minute," Gibbs shot back, not caring how harsh he sounded.
Heaving an agitated sigh, he slammed the folder in front of him closed, pushed himself back from his L-shaped desk and strode briskly toward the Director's office. His pace didn't slow at all as he passed the secretary in the outer office. He opened the heavy metal door and slammed it behind him, cutting off the last word of the secretary's "You can just go right . . ."
Inside the spacious office, a Marine Staff Sergeant in ripped and bloody digital camos sat with one thigh resting on the glass-topped conference table. He was hugging an equally torn and bloody left arm. Leon Vance paced, hands in pockets, just a few steps away.
As the door slammed shut, Vance spun around, a grave expression on his face.
"Special Agent Gibbs, I'd like you to meet Staff Sergeant Samuel Brodin."
"Looks like you're a little banged up, Marine," Gibbs gave instead of the customary greeting.
The young man, who Gibbs guessed to be in his mid-twenties, gave an awkward, lopsided shrug, obviously favoring his injured arm. "Nothing I can't handle, sir."
Vance plucked the toothpick from his lips, just to replace it a second later. "Sergeant Brodin is one of our most valuable undercover assets here on the Navy yard. He's just informed me of the body of a Marine Lieutenant behind the O-club."
"I'll get my team right on it," Gibbs misread what Vance was leading to.
"I already have a team on it," Vance leveled a look at the older man. "The explosion that killed Lieutenant Garvey wasn't meant for him."
Realization dawned on the seasoned agent. "It was meant for you," Gibbs said, his gaze coming to rest on the wounded young man.
Sergeant Brodin nodded grimly. "He saved my life, sir."
"And it's unlikely that this will the only attempt on the Sergeant's life." Vance explained.
"Do we know who's behind it?" Gibbs asked.
Brodin nodded, wincing slightly, and pulling his arm a little closer to his body. "We do, though finding them now's gonna be tough."
"Which is where you come in," Vance interjected. "He's going to need a protection detail till we can track down this gang of want-a-be terrorists."
"Safe house?" Gibbs asked.
Vance shook his head. "Your house," he said simply. When Gibbs said nothing, he continued. "These are Marines that were trained by NCIS to do deep undercover work. If they don't already know, they can easily find the location of any of our safe houses. We can't take that chance. Your house is far enough away from the Navy Yard and can easily be protected." After a short pause, he asked, "Any objections?"
"Nope."
Vance rubbed his hands together. "Alright, then. I leave him in your capable hands."
Turning to the young man, Gibbs sized up his condition. "Come on, Sergeant. Let's get you patched up."
The two had just set foot on the catwalk when the young man finally spoke his mind. "I don't think you understand, sir. I can't go to the hospital. I can't leave any kind of paper trail."
Gibbs afforded the wounded patriot a sidelong glance, letting just a hint of annoyance into his voice. "I know. I wasn't talking about a hospital."
"Then wh . . ?"
But Gibbs just ignored the curious Marine, opting instead to step silently into the elevator, quickly hitting the button that would send them to the basement.
Gibbs didn't miss a step as he threw a glance over his shoulder, making sure his new charge was still behind him as the doors to Autopsy opened with a "whoosh."
"Got a minute, Duck?" the team leader called out, even though his friend was nowhere to be seen.
Dr. Mallard's unmistakable, accented voice came from the adjoining office. "I'm afraid not, Jethro, I was just on my way to the Officer's club to see about a bo . . ." The diminutive doctor stopped short as he poked his head through the door and took in the wounded young man.
"His name was Jeremiah," Brodin said quietly, giving a small, sad smile. "Most people called him 'Jerry.'"
"Of course," Dr. Mallard said somberly. "Well then, I'm sure our friend Jeremiah would certainly not object to me taking care of you before going to see him, under the rather dismal circumstances. Have a seat, my dear boy," he said, motioning to a metal autopsy table.
Sergeant Brodin did as he was told. With gentle, experienced hands, Dr. Mallard cut away the boy's outer uniform shirt till if fell from his back with just a small tug from Gibbs. The agent's eyes narrowed to slits when the young man's wounds were fully uncovered. The Sergeant's entire hand and forearm were badly burned, flecked with small pieces of shrapnel. With expert speed, the doctor cleaned and wrapped the arm, leaving just the tips of the sergeant's fingers exposed. He then began poking and prodding his upper body till he heard a small, "Ugh," from his patient as he palpated the bottom ribs.
"Let's have a closer look, shall we?" The doctor lifted the grimy OD green t-shirt above his patient's rib cage, exposing an angry red, purple, and black bruise. After a few more minutes of painful prodding, Ducky straightened to look the sergeant in the eyes. "It doesn't appear that anything is broken." He then carefully wrapped the sore ribs, finally proclaiming the examination complete. The aging ME quickly scrawled a prescription for pain killers, and another for a topical burn ointment. He handed both to Gibbs, including a quick but detailed narrative on how to take care of the wounds. He promised to check on the boy later that evening, grabbed his coveralls, and made a hasty exit to see Lieutenant Jeremiah Garvey.