Disclaimer: Despite my best hopes that I will wake up as executive producer of NCIS (or perhaps related to the awesome Michael Weatherly), it hasn't happened yet. :(
The wonderful writers of NCIS haven't given us much information about Tony's past. I'm not sure when the "Tony was abused by his father" storyline became a canon detail of sorts, but I've never believed it was a true fact. Having said that, I acknowledge that Senior was universally absent throughout much of Tony's life, which begs the question, why? This is my spin on Senior's past and once you start thinking about it, it could actually make sense... (I guess we won't have to wait long to find out...it's the seventh episode of this season.)
Regardless if you believe this storyline or not, suspend your disbelief for a few moments and read this story with an open mind. It'll be a maze of mystery, intrigue and discovery with liberal doses of action and the all-important whumpage. It is Tony-centic but the entire team will be involved. So, without further ado, I present to you Revelations.
A man walked out of a darkened building and squinted as the bright light assaulted his retinas. The streets were flooded with people pushing and shoving their way through the crowd like it was 0400 on Black Friday.
A door slammed inside the building, forcing the man into action. Shoving his fists into his jacket pocket to hide his bloodied knuckles, the man moved into the crowd, just another commuter in the big city. He shrugged deep into the collar of his 'borrowed' trench coat to avoid being recognized.
He heard a thick Italian accent shouting orders but refused to give himself away by turning around. Over the loud street sounds, the man discerned the Italian commanding his 'employees' to split up and not to return until their target was located. The target had had enough experience with law enforcement to understand "located" was a euphemism for captured, or in extreme circumstances, eliminated.
Pretending he had not heard the Italian, he continued to walk quickly and unobtrusively away from his captors.
He crossed the street in the middle of a large pack of briefcase-wielding lawyers, remaining hunched over to remain hidden among the shorter group.
"I have a visual!" The man turned his head slightly and spotted a young Italian heading directly toward him.
Dammit. He'd been made.
The man abandoned his cover and took off at a dead run, maneuvered his way through the crowd and leaving a trail of incensed workers in his wake.
In the near distance, he spied the tall spire of the local library. Over the last few years libraries had raised security to ensure patrons weren't stealing books; fortunately, said security usually included metal detectors. A safehouse it was not, but this makeshift sanctuary would have to do—at least until he could get a hold of his handler.
He adjusted his course, slowing as the pounding footsteps faded away. He continued at a brisk pace, occasionally checking over his shoulder for signs of a tail, but no one had been following him since he'd turned the last corner.
He had escaped, but his high speed chase was not without consequences: discarding the miscellaneous bruising, he was as winded as a marathon runner at the finish line and his joints were throbbing, especially his right knee. It was an injury he had obtained in his glory days that continued to plague him in high stress, high impact situations like this one. When had just losing a tail become so damn difficult?
But he couldn't stop to rest now—he had to get to the library.
He increased his pace slightly, but not fast enough to stand out from the rest of the commuters. Within minutes, he was ascending the marble staircase of the city's oldest library, ignoring the shooting pains in his knee.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he passed through the metal detectors. His relief, however, was fleeting as he saw the lanky Italian (who resembled Gumby, and would be now be nicknamed as such) pause by a trash can. In the reflection off the sparkling glass window, the man saw sunlight glint off a metal object as Gumby threw it into the receptacle. The man's extensive firearms training allowed him to recognize the weapon as a .45 Colt.
He tore his eyes away from Gumby and approached the nearest librarian.
"Excuse me, miss," he said, fixing the elderly woman with his most charming smile. "Could you please direct me to the nearest restroom?"
The librarian blushed visibly, clearly not accustom to the suaveness of this particular gentleman. She motioned off to the right and hastily returned to stamping the books in front of her.
"Thank you," the man replied, giving the woman a grateful grin as he dashed away.
He entered the bathroom and immediately bent over searching for shoes or any other indication that the room had other occupants. The man saw only one pair of feet at the far end of the stalls. Straightening up, the man marched hurriedly toward the far wall, knowing he had only a few short minutes before Gumby entered.
He pounded on the stall's flimsy door.
"You need to go," he commanded. "Now!"
"Who the hell do you think you are, giving me orders?" a strong voice boomed from inside the stall.
"It's an emergency! I'm giving you three seconds before I kick down this door and drag your sorry hide out of there."
It was silent for a moment before a flushing noise was heard followed by a rapid zipping. A very angry man emerged, a hastily folded newspaper under one arm. He headed for the sink while shooting dirty looks at his unwelcome interruption in the mirror.
"No time!" The man grabbed the back of the cheap jacket, dragged the patron toward the door, and practically threw him out of the room.
"You son of a—" the upset man began but the door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of his curse.
"Sorry," the man replied under his breath as he walked toward the far stall and hauled himself onto the toilet seat, waiting for his pursuer to enter.
Not half a minute later, Gumby kicked open the bathroom door, tightly pressing himself against the bathroom wall. When no gunfire was heard, he cautiously peeked around the corner.
The young man decided it was safe and entered the room, immediately bending down to see if he could spot his target's expensive Armani shoes. He straightened and began systematically throwing open the stall doors.
Standing on the toilet seat, the target waited until he heard the stall next to his being searched. He waited less than ten seconds before he grabbed the top of the stall and kicked open the door.
Gumby grunted as the door slammed into him and knocked the wind out of him. The target hopped off the toilet and hustled over to the fallen Italian.
Just as Gumby's eyes fluttered open, the target grabbed the back of the man's tailored suit and threw him into the bank of sinks. Gumby's head collided with the porcelain and he collapsed to the floor, bleeding freely from a gash above his left eye.
The conscious man grabbed his pursuer's lapels and towed him into the last stall before locking the door from the outside.
Yep, he thought, waggling his long fingers happily, he still had it.
He paused for a moment in front of the mirror to straighten his tie. His eyes widened and he bent closer to the mirror as he discovered his hairline was father back than it had been a few months ago. Frowning, he ran a hand through the mess in an attempt to make himself look more presentable—and to hide his increasing widow's peak.
He exited the lavatory in search of a cell phone. He casually collided with a young woman standing by the information desk, his fingers deftly lifting her smart phone.
He located a study room in an abandoned section of the library. After securing the door, he sat in the only chair and dialed the number he'd committed to memory long ago.
"71730 for Hendricks."
"Eastwood?" a gruff voice barked over the line.
"In the flesh," 'Eastwood' replied with a grin.
"What the hell were you thinking? Your little stunt back there compromised the integrity of the entire mission! It'll take months to get another operative that close! Leaving with Thompson was a rookie mistake that's going to cost you—big time."
Hendricks stopped and took a deep breath before continuing in a softer tone. "The FBI's breathing down our neck for jurisdiction and Jamison just decided to grant it."
"I think there's been a misunderstanding, sir—" the operative began.
"No misunderstanding. Everyone in the command center saw what happened."
"Nothing happened," 'Eastwood' insisted. "I followed my instructions to the letter, never broke cover."
"I honestly don't know what to think right now. I've seen the video and it's pretty damning evidence."
"Just give me a chance—let me come in and explain. I'm sure I can explain…"
"Don't do that Eastwood. The Chiefs are in a big meeting right now deciding how to handle you—for the time being, you've been suspended. I probably shouldn't have told you that but after all these years, I feel I owe you something. I repeat: Do not come in. Get the hell out of Dodge and lay low for as long as possible. Take a trip maybe—I hear Brazil's wonderful this time of year—until the heat dies down."
"I can't do that," 'Eastwood' repeated. "Someone set me up and I'm going to find out whom."
"I hope you do. You're one of our best."
"Thanks Hendricks. Tell that to the review committee."
"I'll do my best. You need to get going—I'm sure they're tracing this call."
"D'ya think, Hendricks?" The recently disavowed man couldn't help remarking snidely.
"Good bye Eastwood. And good luck—you're going to need it."
'Eastwood' left the library discarding the phone in the book return slot. He kept a watchful eye for tails all the way to a dilapidated hotel at the edge of the city that did not even provide free cable.
He requested the room at the far end of the building, closest to the emergency exit. As soon as he entered the sparsely furnished room, 'Eastwood' immediately swept for bugs or other listening devices. Finding none, he plopped down on the bed, ignoring the cloud of dust that rose. He pulled out the phone he had snagged from the night clerk and dialed the operator.
"Collect call to Anthony DiNozzo Junior. Washington, D.C."
"May I ask who's calling?" the operator asked with a bored sigh.
"His father," Anthony DiNozzo Senior answered. "Tell him it's a matter of life and death."
And so begins Revelations! Again, it WILL be Tony-centric but I just couldn't find a decent segue into this story from Tony's point of view. Fear not! Our favorite NCIS agent makes his first appearance in the next chapter...and every succeeding chapter as well! :)
Thanks for reading! Reviews appreciated!