Title: the I in the FBI
Author: WriterKos
Rating: M
Parings: McGee/OFC
Characters: McGee, OC, the whole Gang from NCIS some from Criminal Minds, with light mention of Jack O'Neill (SG1).
Genres: Pre-Series, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Family, a whole lot of other stuff.
Summary: How the street urchin who stole Joseph's wallet in a train station became Joy Buchanan. Pre-series. Part of the Buchanan series.
VERY IMPORTANT
Warnings: Violence and curse words. Bullying in School and child torture is going to be mentioned ahead. I don't know exactly how graphic it will be yet, but it will be at least mentioned. You've been warned. A very healthy dose of Supernatural intervention is going to be mentioned as well, so if you do not believe in God, Angels and Demons this type of stuff, it's your choice. If you do not like reading things about these themes, turn around now. Let your fingers do the walking.
A/n 1: This story happens approximately twenty two years before the story A Geek walks into a Bar. It is a very detailed study of chapter two, three and four of that fic. It will make sense only if you are familiar with the Joy Buchanan series.
A/n 2: For now, there will be a bunch of shows which I'll do a crossover with. Mainly with Criminal Minds (Jason Gideon will be huge character of the fic), but some characters from SG1 (Specially Jack O'Neill and family) will also do a small gracious appearance. I don't know about other shows yet, but so far, these two.
A/n 3: I'm finally going to delve into Joy's past and start an arch about her scars. There are two stories planned to unveil them, and believe me, if you guys have been following the series, this will be as heartbreaking as the Jarod's Arch in Connecting the dots and The Gathering. So, buckle up, and get ready to delve into the Pit.
a/n 4: Noraque, you asked for an explanation for Joy's scars in a long, dark and engaging story. This one is dedicated to you.
Chapter 1: FBI raid
There is no good or evil. Just power and those weak enough to seek it. – J. K. Rowling
11 February 1987 * (SEE FOOTNOTE)
Outskirts of Detroit, MI.
The cars slowly drove up the path to the main house, the lights turned off not to tip the inhabitants of their impending doom. The heavily armed guards at the entrance of the property had been subdued by the assault team, and now they slowly advanced towards their goal.
The task force, assembled with FBI, local and state police officers, stopped their cars just on a corner before the main compound, and slowly left their vehicles and waited for the order to strike.
For the last five months, they had been investigating the dealings of Mr. Swanson and his cronies in the underground of Detroit ghettos, and they had gathered enough surveillance tapes to fill a storage room from top to bottom in the local PD. The charges ranged from human trafficking, extortion, corruption, money laundering and prostitution.
He had been very careful in his dealings, always setting up one of his left or right hands to take the fall if they were caught. He had nothing listed in his own name, but he lived as an Indian Pasha with servants, maids and security guards at his reach in a glorious property with more security than the Fort Knox.
But the FBI had had a breakthrough three weeks before, when they intercepted a van in a routine checkpoint and found three bound and drugged young women in the back of the van. The driver, when interrogated, panicked and revealed that they were merchandise requested for a party. After that, intense investigations lead them to find out who was the organizer of the party, none other than Mr. Swanson himself.
As they say, after that breakthrough, the rest is history.
Karl Lindenberg, SSA of the Violent Crimes Section in Detroit for the FBI, softly whispers in his walk talkie as he orders everyone to their position.
"Can you see movement in the house, Eagle Four?"
Pietro Lorenzetti, Lindenberg's partner in the FBI, studies the constant moves of the watch guards doing patrol around the main house. He looks through his binoculars and counts the guards, and lifts a little his arm, so he can see the movement of the people inside the house. He counts nine guards doing rounds on the main house, and some movement by the water pound, two people by a small pier in the back. There are four people talking inside the house, and he can clearly see Swanson with his back turned to the big windows, smoking and talking with a very nervous guy in a white jacket.
"There are four inside, two by the pound and so far, I've counted nine outside. There are probably more, Eagle one."
"Can you see our target?"
Pietro squints on the binoculars, and studies Swamson's face as he turns around to face the big windows, blowing gray smoke.
"Affirmative, Eagle one."
He frowns as he sees the other two men going behind the nervous guy in a white jacket, and grabbing by his arms and twisting it behind his back. Swanson draws a weapon from inside of his velour vest.
"Shit is about to happen, go go GO!" Pietro whispers desperately in his walk talkie.
The agents rush in formation towards the house, the strike team taking by storm the guards, and slowly advancing in the house towards the room upstairs where the assassination was about to happen.
NCIS NCIS NCIS NCIS
"Do you believe in the power of evil, Mr. Johnson?"
A soft educated voice whispers in the room, as the two thugs grab Mr. Johnson's arms and painfully twist behind back and he groans.
"I believe in power, whether it is evil or not, it depends on how it is used. And you, Swanson, don't have any idea that your reign of terror is about to end."
The man by the window turns his head to the side, and makes a flick of his wrist. One of the thugs walks around the bound man, leaving him in the hands of the other one, and hits Johnson in the stomach with a vicious punch, leaving him breathless. His knees falter, but the thug holding him by his arms doesn't let him fall to the floor, forcing him to keep standing and almost pulling his arms from its sockets.
"Ah, and you are so sure of that just because those silly church rats told you that."
Mr. Johnson lets his head fall to his chest, wheezing in pain. He knows his life is forfeit, but he will speak his mind to the powerful crime lord.
"No, not because they told me that, but because they showed me that even the great Swanson is not invincible. You got too greedy. They are protected, man. I've sent killers, robbers and even hookers. It is crazy, as every time one of our people gets closer to one of them, something happens, and they escape at the very last moment. It's almost like they are protected by a higher force or something. Some kind of power that I can't fight against to. Neither can you. You ruled for too long but nobody controls everything all the time. One time you will slip, somewhere you will lose control, and the castle of cards you are building will crumble down. And I'll laugh my ass off that you fell just because you messed up with those idiots."
Swanson turns around with a gun on his hand, and advances menacingly towards the bound man.
"We are at war here," says Swanson, grabbing Johnson's hair and lifting him to stare into his face. "Just because you do not believe in the power of my Masters, just because you can not see it or feel it, it doesn't make it less real."
Johnson spits blood which promptly spoils the impeccable ironed trousers Swanson is wearing. He receives a slap for that.
"The Masters dwell everywhere, their power is immeasurable. There are those who fight it, but soon they are corrupted by the Masters' powers and they fall from grace. Once they fall, they are ours for the taking. And those silly church-going idiots think that they can fight against my will. That property is on my way, and even if I have to run it down with bulldozers, I'll do it."
"They won't sell it. It has belonged to the church for the last forty years, and they won't give it up for you. I told you that."
Swanson nods, and runs the gun softly over Johnson's cheek, who whimpers in fear.
"Yes, you did. But you failed in convincing them to leave that property so I could own the whole neighborhood and build my shopping mall, so," Mr. Swanson moves the gun so it is pointed directly between the eyes of Mr. Johnson, "I don't like failure. Neither do my Masters. Send my greetings to them when you meet them face to face in Hell."
David Johnson, murderer, crook and all around bastard, stares at the barrel of the gun about to end his life and does something that he hasn't done since he was a little boy wearing short pants. He prays. He prays to a God long forgotten, but after staying three weeks following those crazy church going and Bible studying people, seeing them happy and enjoying their lives in simple pleasures, it finally made him realize how empty his life had been for so long and how much he misses those simple mornings when he went with his Nana to the Sunday school, when life seemed so simpler, without assassinations on the breakfast menu.
God, if you really exist, I don't expect you to save me or forgive me on the very last minute, but at least say I'm sorry to my Nana and tell her that I miss her, he whispers in his mind.
Finally, a voice whispers in his ear, and he frowns, as time seems to slow down as a blow by blow picture. I've been waiting for you to come back to My Arms for a long time, David. Will you repent of your sins?
God?
Will you?
He sees Swanson putting his finger on the trigger and getting ready to shoot him. He gulps as he hears the voice again.
Will you?
Yes.
The study doors burst open a bunch of men in tactical suits enter the room with guns pointed to the standoff.
"FREEZE! FBI!"
Shots are heard, and screams soon follow them.
NCIS NCIS NCIS NCIS
The takeover of the big main compound is done without losses to the strike team. They arrest fifteen people, stop a murder about to happen in the main study, and also have the pleasure of putting a bullet in Swanson. Unfortunately, the bastard doesn't die, and is taken to the hospital still alive. A curious fact is the about-to-be murdered crook that, once he sees the FBI clad men, starts laughing and praising God for their interference.
Lindenberg and Lorenzetti just stare confused at the man laughing hysterically, who identifies himself as David Johnson, one of the main hit killers of Swanson's organization. And promptly offers to give all information they might want about it.
"And you're just going to collaborate with us."
Johnson wipes relief tears from his cheeks, and looks happily at the Feds.
"Yes, I will."
"No bargaining for a deal, or such."
"No need to. I just got the biggest deal of my whole life."
Lindenberg looks at Lorenzetti, who just shrugs, "He's talking, keep guards around him and get all the info you can from him. I'm going to the back to see how the other teams are pulling up."
"Ok, Mister I-got-a-second-chance, please follow me," Lorenzetti grabs the man by his handcuffed arm and guides him out of the room.
Lindenberg leaves the big house, and looks around the movement of cops arresting the people in the other buildings of the property, dragging them to the vans parked at the entrance of the property. There is a faint movement of ambulances as well, as they take the wounded and dead guards away.
He walks further towards the garden, and stares at the dark blue sky with tiny sparkling dots.
"What now?"
The Pit.
Lindenberg looks around, certain that someone whispered something on his ear, but there is no one close enough to speak to him. And the voice doesn't sound as anyone he knows.
"Anyone there?"
The Pit.
He turns to the right and his sharp eyes sees three cops struggling with the two people they found by the pound a couple of yards further down the backyard. He walks towards the confusion, and sees that they are young women, barely in their twenties, dressed in what he could see were very diaphanous dresses, almost roman like, completely inadequate to the freezing February chill.
"What's the problem here, officer?"
"They refuse to leave the pound. They say that they are waiting for an answer. But they are as high as a kite."
Lindenberg walks towards one of the girls, with pale skin and sunken black eyes. Her eyes are glazed, and she is clearly under narcotics influence. Her lackluster black hair hangs limply around her face down to her back, and she has several needle marks in her arms.
Lindenberg grabs her chin firmly, and forces her to look into his face. She blinks lazily, but her gaze doesn't fixes in his.
"Hey, kid, look at me."
"We don't have the answer. We must not leave the Pit."
He frowns, as he thinks about the voice in his head some seconds before.
"Pit?"
The girl turns her head to look at the filthy water pound, covered with water plants and with a certain decaying smell wafting from it.
"We seek answers. We must have them."
"Listen, kid. Swanson is arrested. He can't use you or drug you anymore. You guys are safe now."
The girl fixes her eyes into his, and Lindenberg feels a chill. Her blue eyes look dead. There is no soul behind them.
"We won't leave. You have the Master, but our Masters have yet to answer. We won't leave."
He looks at the cop holding the young woman upright, "You're right, they are drugged. But I think they were brainwashed as well. Take them from here."
The other girl starts struggling against her captors, "We can't let the Servant alone. It's not how it's done. We have to wait."
That freezes Lindenberg, who stares at the other girl, another brunette, this one with steel gray eyes staring at him with no expression.
"Servant? Where's the Servant?"
Both girls turn their eyes to the pound, staring at its murky waters lifelessly. Lindenberg feels a terrifying chill going up his spine, as he turns to the dark waters, and he sees some bubbles coming from somewhere underneath.
"You're saying that's there's someone down there?" He asks in an incredulous voice.
"It's the Servant's tasks to consult our Masters for answers to the Master," says the first girl, her blue eyes staring into his face as piercing knives, her voice tone as a teacher giving a lecture to a child.
"How long has she or he been down there?" he asks in a stressed out voice, already freaking out.
"Five, seven minutes. She's not allowed to come up until They give an answer."
"Call the paramedics," shouts Lindenberg, as he takes his overcoat and shoes, getting ready to jump in the freezing waters. He runs on the board walk until he is over the dark waters and does a perfect dive, sinking beside the place where he saw some bubbles coming out.
He tries opening his eyes under the water, but the darkness in there is absolute. He waves his hand in front of him, trying desperately trying to find something, anything underneath. His ears start ringing, his lungs burning to breathe, but he doesn't dare to inhale any of the filthy water.
He turns back to the surface, and breathes desperately trying to recover enough for another dive. His teeth are clenching with cold, but he won't give up. He looks towards the pound shore, and sees some policemen over there.
"I need light in here! Bring me light!" he shouts desperately.
He looks around, seeking somewhere where bubbles can be seen. The cops on the shore light up some strong spotlights, illuminating the surface of the pound.
He looks around again, and sees some faint bubbles to his right. He takes a deep breath, and dives again.
The same darkness of before is spotted with faint rays of light, giving him some idea of what is right before him, he keeps swimming downwards, seeking, looking for something.
He spots something in white moving close to the bottom, and despite his lungs screaming at him, he keeps swimming until his right hand runs against something. Hair, long strains of hair, human hair in his fingers. He pulls it and he is face to face with a doll like face, the mocha skin almost yellow, and eyes tightly shut. He takes her by her arm, and she immediately opens her eyes, and he is shocked to see the most expressive brown eyes he has ever seen looking right back at him. She blinks and frowns, and he almost can hear her asking What are you doing here before he grabs her in his arms and starts swimming towards the surface.
He sticks his head out of the water, and the little girl throws her arms around his neck and relaxes her little body against his chest. He faintly hears the shouts of the cops on the shore with his water filled ears, but he keeps his precious bundle firmly against his chest until he reaches the shore.
He drags himself to the land, and he almost shouts as he feels his precious cargo taken from his arms. He coughs as he sees the men trying desperately trying to work on her unresponsive body, lying lifelessly over a blanket someone brought to them.
He wipes his mouth and approaches the little girl and pushes one of the cops working on her, and hovers over her. Her lips are purple, her skin looks like a prune, such was the time she stayed underwater. She wasn't breathing.
"Ah, no."
He immediately starts applying CPR, the image of those brown eyes haunting his mind.
"You are not going to die, little one."
His partner arrives to see the commotion, and he brings with him Lindenberg's overcoat.
"Come on. COME ON!"
The little girl starts coughing, spouting dirty water out of her mouth. Immediately Lindenberg turns her and puts her in the recovery position, opens her mouth and cleans her airways, as she keeps puking dirty water.
"That's it, little one. Very good. You're not going to die, ok. You're not going to die."
She blinks tiredly, and he stretches his hand to Lorenzetti, who gives him his overcoat. He wraps the little girl in it, in a desperate attempt to warm her out.
"I NEED BLANKETS!" shouts Lorenzetti, staring astonished at his partner and the little girl he saved the life.
"That's it, little one. I got you. No one will hurt you, ok?"
She frowns and looks up at Lindenberg, who keeps repeating sweet nothings at her for a long time, until the paramedics finally arrive and order him to release her into their care, so they can check her out.
And all the time, she simply stares at Lindenberg with big brown eyes, not saying one single word.
A/N *: For continuity purposes, I've changed the year on this chapter. Regards. K.