Lying on the cold and filthy cement floor of a terrorist training camp is about as terrifying as one would expect. It's even more uncomfortable when you're forced to hear your captor talk of your impending death with the same nonchalance you might use when making small talk with your neighbor. I guess when you've mercilessly killed as many people as Saleem and his crew had, the idea of knocking off another person comes with no remorse.
It's times like this when trust and communication are imperative. One wrong move could get everyone killed. I had to trust that Tony would know the right things to say. He had to trust that, when given the signal to act, I wouldn't hesitate. We both had to trust that Gibbs wouldn't miss. It's a lot of pressure to have so many lives—including your own— resting on your shoulders.
How I managed to keep calm and feign unconsciousness for as long as I did, I'll never know.
We hadn't really had a plan going in. How could we when we didn't even know what we'd find there? Unlike the other people on our team, I don't like winging it. I prefer a more scientific way of approaching things: you create a hypothesis, examine all possible variables, and use trial and error to determine the best course of action. I thrive on detailed plans, on plotting out each word and action, before taking the plunge.
But sometimes you have to dive in and hope it turns out right. Sometimes you have to find your own scientific method amid the seemingly chaotic circumstances.
Tony may have referred to himself as the Wild Card, but he was actually a perfect constant in this equation. He did what he did best: he talked, falling into his comfort zone and playing the wise guy role perfectly. On the outside it would seem he was trying to put on a tough front, but in reality he was buying time, breaking down our captor little by little.
Saleem was far too proud to think we could still be a threat. He played into our hands just as we'd hypothesized, every word and reaction being exactly as we'd planned. It never even occurred to him that our team could have consisted of more than just the two of us; that much we'd banked on.
I listened as they spoke; Saleem's smooth and warm voice juxtaposed his words, words meant to threaten and strike terror into our hearts. I listened as Tony kept talking, never missing a beat, stalling as long as he could. We both knew that his silence would spell our deaths. All was going according to plan.
And then, we were hit with a curveball, as Saleem dragged Ziva in. As much hope as we'd had in finding her alive, in our minds she'd been as good as dead. This wasn't meant to be a rescue mission; now the circumstances had changed, an independent variable we hadn't counted upon. If this were a scientific method, we would have reassessed the situation and formulated a new equation. But neither time nor opportunity was on our side; the time for talk was done and the time for action was here.
Tony gave the signal and I didn't even think; I jumped into motion, literally sweeping Saleem off his feet. The reality of the situation only returned to me when he snapped back up, pointing the gun at my head. Another variable, though this one dependant and not at all surprising. The solution to this equation was simple: drop the knife.
Saleem angrily pulled himself back up, his voice no longer calm and conversational. This was the point of no return in our scientific method. In the next thirty seconds someone was going to die. Whether it would be him or us was anyone's guess. My hands unconsciously clasped together and a whispered prayer fluttered across my lips, hoping that the solution to this equation would be in our favor.
And then the glass broke. The bullet struck Saleem and he fell once more to the ground, this time never to rise again.
We half-dragged Ziva into the hallway, entering the final phase of our shaky equation, this one the most frenzied phase of all. With no clear concept of what lay between us and the exit, we stepped out, taking quick but tentative steps, ready to shoot to kill if necessary. It may have been only a few feet between us and freedom, but it felt like miles before we made it out and were standing in the Somalia sunlight. The weight was off our shoulders, but our bodies sagged, a testament to what we'd suffered in there.
And there it was. The equation was complete, the solution being a successful rescue and a well-deserved return home. Our hypothesis had been correct, variables and all, and once again the scientific method had prevailed.
But I knew that this was only one of many solutions that could have come from our equation. All it takes is one variable, one miscalculation, and the hypothesis fails. In the scientific method, this means nothing; in our line of work, though, it can mean the difference between life and death.
AN: This was my second entry for the Last Fic Writer Standing Competition. Thanks for reading!