Disclaimer: NCIS and "The Road Goes On Forever" are the intellectual property of their creators. I'm just borrowin' 'em for a spell. I promise I'll put 'em back where I found 'em when I'm done. Honest.
Authors Note: I've had writer's block for the past 10 days. It's lifted and this story is what's coming out. I hope that it comes out right.
Spoilers: Is there anyone who reads this fandom that does not know the story of the death of Gibbs' family, his subsequent killing of their murderer and his joining NIS/NCIS? If you're one of those people consider yourself spoiled.
Background: For the purposes of this story I'm using the timeline of my story "Murder Most Foul". You may want to just scan that story to become familiar with that timeline. In flashbacks during "Hiatus" we see Gibbs going thru a border checkpoint into Mexico to go get Pedro Hernandez. I would hope that an individual with some experience in covert ops like Gibbs would not leave such an obvious trail. So this story is going to depart from canon in that respect. There are going to be several other departures. So all you purists out there can holler AU! all ya want. It's my sandbox. Also, I've never been to southern Arizona and northern Sonora Mexico so I'm just going by maps and satellite imagery off the Internet.
"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."- Confucius (551 BC-479 BC)
Gibbs' house, Base housing, Camp Pendleton MCB, April 17, 1991, 2100hrs
Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Jethro Gibbs was sitting at his kitchen table with a yellow legal pad and a road atlas. Earlier in the day he'd been at the NIS field office picking up his Beretta from Special Agent Mike Franks. Yesterday Gibbs was a very short step from killing himself. Franks stopped him and confiscated his pistol for the night. Gibbs grinned slightly.
And the bastard got me good and drunk.
When Gibbs went to claim his weapon, Franks went to the head. On his desk was the file on the man who'd killed Jethro's wife and daughter. Gibbs quickly rifled thru the file, learning that Pedro Hernandez was hiding on a rancho outside of Buena Vista, Northern Sonora. The file thoughtfully included the GPS co-ordinates of the rancho. Gibbs was drinking bourbon from a coffee mug and making up a plan of action and equipment list so he could kill Pedro Hernandez.
Orderly Room, Casual Company, Thursday, April 18, 1991 0830hrs
While the Marine Corps made up its mind what to do with Gunnery Sgt. Gibbs, he was assigned to Casual Company. This unit was composed of Marines awaiting either reassignment or separation from the service. After morning formation, Jethro had no real assigned duties. Most days he went to the armory and helped out where he could. Today though he was going to request ten days leave, the first step in his plan.
Gibbs entered the Orderly Room and the Corporal behind the desk looked up.
"Morning, Gunny."
"Morning, Riley. Is the First Sergeant around?"
"He's in his office. Do you need to see him?"
"Yes."
Riley stood and lifted an end of the counter, pushing open the vertical portion, allowing Gibbs to walk behind the counter. The Corporal pointed down a short corridor.
"Second door on the left, Gunny."
"Thanks Corporal."
"No problem."
Jethro went down the corridor and turned into the second door on the left. First Sergeant Roger Smith was sitting behind his desk banging away at a computer keyboard, a pair of reading glasses perched precariously towards the end of his nose. Smith was in his mid fifties, the sleeves of his immaculate desert camo utilities folded to just above his elbows, his hair in the traditional Marine "high and tight".
"Careful those cheaters don't fall off Rog."
Without turning his head, Smith spoke.
"Fuck you and the white horse you rode in on Gibbs."
Jethro chuckled and dropped into the chair in front of Smith's desk. The First Sergeant removed his reading glasses and swiveled around to face Gibbs.
"What can I do for you Jethro?"
Gibbs removed the leave request paperwork from the left breast pocket of his utilities and handed it to Smith.
"Ten day leave request Roger."
Smith took the paperwork, put his reading glasses back on and scanned the request.
"Don't see any problem. How come the first week in June?"
"I want to go hiking up north and my leg is still a little off. I figure another month of PT and running, an' I'll be good to go."
Smith nodded.
"Okay Gibbs, I'll give this to the Old Man. You gonna make the poker game Friday?"
Jethro smiled.
"Absolutely. I'd never pass up a chance to take your money Rog."
State Road 82, south of Vail Arizona, June 2, 1991
Gibbs used the month between his leave request and the start of his leave to good effect. He purchased clothing, a civilian GPS, and other items. He got some MRE's from a Supply sergeant he knew. Weapons were not a problem. He owned a Remington 700 rifle chambered in .308 caliber. It had a 3 to 9 power variable Redfield scope. Jethro also owned a Remington 870 shotgun. Thru the Shotgun News he was able to buy an eighteen inch barrel for it. Gibbs would also be carrying his 92F.
Currently Jethro was headed towards the Mexican border. He was looking for a farm or ranch where he could stash his pickup. He'd walk across the border and hump the approximately two days it would take to get to the rancho outside Buena Vista. As he rode down SR 82 the radio, tuned to a country station in Tucson played in the background. Robert Earl Keen was working his way thru "The Road Goes On Forever" in his rusty, reedy voice.
"Sherry was a waitress at the only joint in town She had a reputation as a girl who got around Down Main Street after midnight with a brand new pack of cigs A fresh one hangin' from her lips and a beer between her legs She'd ride down to the river and meet with all her friends The road goes on forever and the party never ends…"
Three miles short of the border, Jethro spotted a single mailbox and a rutted track going off to his left.
Bingo
He worked the pickup carefully down the rutted track, finally stopping in the dusty yard of a rundown looking ranch. There was a single story house, a barn and a small corral. On the porch of the house stood an older looking guy who could've been fifty or eighty. He was tanned dark brown, wearing boots faded Levi's and a long sleeved white shirt. There was a low crowned Stetson shading his eyes. Gibbs turned off the motor and stepped out of the pickup.
"Mornin', sir."
"Mornin' young feller. What kin I do for ya?"
"I need a place to leave my pickup while I go into Mexico."
"Do ya now. Well, come on inside an' we'll palaver."
Gibbs crossed the yard, mounted the steps and followed the man into the house. The kitchen he stepped into was immaculate, looking freshly cleaned. Once inside the man removed his hat and stuck out his hand.
"Name's Morrel, Sam Morrel."
Jethro shook Morrel's hand.
"Jethro Gibbs."
"Light an' set Jethro. Coffee?"
Morrel motioned to a coffee pot sitting on a hot plate.
"Sure. Black'll be fine."
Morrel nodded and drew off two cups setting one in front of Gibbs.
"So what's this all about?"
Jethro leaned back in the kitchen chair sipping his coffee.
"I'm going into Mexico on foot and I need a place to leave my truck."
"You're gonna walk into Mexico?"
"Uh huh. I have some personal business to attend to near Buena Vista."
"Be a sight easier to drive to Buena Vista."
"You're right, it would be. But what I need to do, needs to be done quietly."
"Well son, if you need a place to leave your truck, here's as good as any. You're not a smuggler or a coyote are ya?"
"No sir, I'm not."
Morrel nodded.
"Okay, cost ya a hundred. That suit ya?"
"Thanks Mr. Morrel."
"Call me Sam."
Gibbs pulled his pickup into Sam's barn and unloaded his equipment. He had a rucksack with a soft rifle case attached, his shotgun and web gear. Jethro would be wearing tan combat boots, plain tan pants, a long sleeved tan shirt and a tan 'boonie hat'. He planned on leaving when it got dark and moving at night, laying up in a hide during the day. Supper time came and Morrel made a simple meal of fried venison, fried potatoes and canned green beans. After dinner they sat on the porch waiting for the sun to go down. Gibbs' gear was piled on the steps. Morrel was sitting in a rocker smoking a bulldog pipe and sipping from a can of Coors. Gibbs was sitting backwards on a kitchen chair, his forearms across the top. Morrel blew a smoke ring.
"Don't suppose you'd care to tell me what this is about?"
"No, sir. No disrespect, but if this doesn't work out, the less you know the better."
Morrel nodded.
"Okay, but if you don't come back, what do I do with your truck?"
Gibbs smiled.
"Sell it and use the money for whatever. I left the title in the glove box."
"Trusting soul, ain't ya?"
"Nah, I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I don't think you'd steal my truck Sam."
Morrel laughed.
"Son that truck ain't worth stealin'!"
Half an hour after full dark, Gibbs took his leave, buckling on his web gear and hoisting his ruck onto his back. He picked up the 870.
"See you in about a week Sam."
The two men shook hands.
"You take good care Gibbs. It can get pretty hairy out there."
"I'll keep that in mind."
With that, Gibbs turned away and after a minute his figure faded into the darkness.
The rancho, outside Buena Vista, Mexico June 4, 1991 0410hrs
The hump out to the rancho was uneventful. Gibbs dodged two groups of illegals on the Mexican side. After that he saw no one. He was in his hide before daylight on both days. He would sleep fitfully all day, getting up after dark. He would eat and drink, then get on the trail. Now he was looking down on his target. The area was quiet, no patrols out. It looked as if Hernandez was not expecting trouble. Gibbs would find a good spot for his observation hide. Once he settled in, he'd observe the routine of the house and decide if he needed to set up a shooting hide. Shooting. Gibbs grinned wolfishly, his mind's eye seeing the crosshairs of his scope imposed on Pedro Hernandez' head.
Soon, very soon.
A/N: Okay, I'm thinkin' two, maybe three chapters. We'll see. On a totally unrelated topic, Sunday I was at the flea market and found "A History of the English Speaking Peoples" (all four volumes) for five bucks. Needless to say, I've been in my recliner at night reveling in Sir Winston's prose. Now there's a guy who can write! Speaking of writing, how about a review of mine? Would it help if I said "Pretty please?"