Ziva was about to drive around the block again, when she spotted an elderly man walk out of the bank and head towards a car parked just outside. She pulled up and waited just back from the spot, watching as the man checked his pockets and finally found his car keys. As he opened his car door, he glanced over at her, and gave her a nod and a smile, then got in. A few moments later he drove away, leaving Ziva to edge into the parking spot. As she got out of her car, she congratulated herself on her luck. It was always difficult to find parking close to the bank during the day, which was why she rarely went into the bank itself, preferring to use debit machines and online banking.

But this morning she had tried to withdraw some money, only to have the ATM refuse to recognize her debit card. Worn and scratched as it was, it really wasn't surprising. She had known for a while that the card needed replacing, but she'd put it off until now, when she was forced to go into the bank to get a new card.

As she pulled open the door of the bank, her attention was caught by the middle-aged man standing a few yards away at the edge of the sidewalk. He looked agitated, running his hand through his thinning hair, and mumbling to himself. But he wasn't looking at anyone in particular, wasn't bothering anyone, so she shrugged it off and continued into the bank. There was quite a lineup, and Ziva checked her watch. While it was a slow day at work, she didn't want to be late getting back from lunch. You never knew when a case would materialize, and it didn't do to be on lunch when that happened.

After about ten minutes standing in line, Ziva pulled out her phone. If she was going to be late back, she should at least let one of her colleagues know where she was. She was about punch in McGee's number, when the door of the bank was wrenched open, and the agitated man she'd noticed earlier walked in. Though he was flushed, and sweat shone on his face, he now seemed otherwise rational... until he pulled a gun from an inside pocket and pointed it at the security guard.

"Hand over the gun!" The command was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear; only a faint tremor shook the man's voice. The guard, a heavy-set, greying man, obviously decided that his best bet was to cooperate. If the intruder was intent on robbery, he was going to let him take what he wanted without anyone getting hurt, and let the cops deal with catching the man later. Moving slowly, the guard unholstered his weapon and handed it over.

Taking a few steps towards the tellers' counter, the gunman said, "I want the manager!" The tellers glanced nervously at one another, but were saved from trying to decide who would respond when the manager, a man in his early forties, with a reassuring air of competency, emerged from his open office, having heard the demand.

"Can I help you?" His voice was calm, and to some his question might have sounded ridiculous, but Ziva realized that the manager was trying to keep the situation as low-key as possible. His all-in-a-day's-work demeanor was intended to reassure the customers and staff, while giving the gunman no reason to react suddenly. Ziva felt a slight measure of relief; if it was staff policy that no-one tried to be a hero, then they might all get out of this with nothing more than shredded nerves. Everyone in the bank was standing motionless, and Ziva hoped it would stay like that.

"I want to see the CEO of this bank," the gunman said; again there was the faintest shake in his voice, but otherwise he seemed relatively composed.

The manager nodded. "I can call him and you can talk to him..."

"I want him here in person."

"Sir, that's not possible, the CEO isn't..."

"I said, in person!" Suddenly the man raised his gun and fired into the ceiling. Instinctively, everyone ducked, there were a few muffled screams from some of the customers, and one of the tellers. "In person! Now!" The agitation that Ziva had observed in the man when he was standing outside seemed to be creeping back into his manner.

The bank manager took a step towards him; his voice was placating as he began, "Sir, I'm very sorry, but the CEO won't..." The gunman's tentative composure deserted him; he pointed his gun at the manager and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit him in the belly, and he doubled over with a choking cry. "Wrong answer," the shooter snarled. He turned his gaze to the tellers, and took a step towards them, but his attention was taken by the sudden wail of sirens on the street outside. Moments later a police car pulled up on the other side of the parked cars. Presumably, one of the tellers had hit a panic button, summoning local law enforcement. Though her eyes were fixed on the gunman, Ziva was aware of several sighs of relief from other customers. She knew, though, that this was when things could get really dangerous. If the gunman panicked now, more people could get hurt.

Ziva took a quick glance around. If she'd been more in the background, she might have risked going for her own gun, relying on her speed and accuracy to allow her to act before the gunman realized what was happening. But she was right in front of the man, any movement she made would be instantly obvious.

The gunman glanced over his shoulder; sweat was starting to run down his face, and his breathing was fast and shallow. For a split second, he seemed undecided on what he should do next. Then the cops got out of the car and began to approach cautiously, trying to peer through the reflections on the bank's glass front to see what was going on. A moment later, the gunman reached for the person nearest to him; with one arm around Ziva's neck, and the muzzle of his gun pressed to her temple, he dragged her to the window.

The cops froze, realizing that they had a hostage-taking on their hands, and quickly retreated behind their car. Ziva knew they'd be calling in backup now. It took all her self control not to try to disarm this lunatic; but the muzzle of the gun was hard against her skin, even she wasn't quick enough to prevent him from blasting her brains all over the window. She took a deep breath, hoping that the others in the bank wouldn't start to panic.

Gibbs walked into the squad room, frowning when he saw Ziva's desk was still empty. "Ziva not back yet?" It was a slow day, but that didn't mean his team were at liberty to take two-hour lunch breaks. McGee and DiNozzo exchanged knowing glances. They knew from personal experience that Ziva's extended midday absence would likely be balanced by the very late night she would have to put in on the extra paperwork that would soon be dumped on her desk.

"She said she was going to the bank," McGee offered. "Maybe it was busy."

The look Gibbs favored him with conveyed exactly what he thought of a long lineup as an excuse for being this late back from lunch. Shrugging, McGee turned his attention back to his computer; he'd tried, anyway. From the corner of his eye, McGee saw the senior agent put his paper coffee cup down on his desk and reach for his cellphone. Yup, he doubted Ziva would be leaving the office any time before midnight...

Then he saw Gibbs freeze in the act of sitting down, his expression suddenly changing from irritation to disbelief, his eyes fixed on the big tv screen positioned between McGee's and DiNozzo's work areas. It was customarily tuned to a local news station, and following Gibbs's gaze, McGee turned to look.

He saw the blurb - "Live: Hostage Taking At Local Bank" - and wondered why Gibbs would be so riveted by the report. Then he looked at the footage; it was a slightly shaky zoomed-in shot, of a man at the window of a bank, holding a female hostage by the throat. McGee blinked, understanding now why Gibbs was staring so intently. The hostage, looking grim and intense, with a gun pressed to her forehead was, without a doubt, Ziva David.