Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.

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Once upon a time, in a far-off land called Washington, in the year of 2007, the eternal war raged, as it did elsewhere, among the forces of Good, Evil, and Apathy. This is the story of one man's... or more than one man's... pitched battle on the side of Good...

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The August midday sun continued its regular, seasonal baking of the Washington D.C. pavement as NCIS special agent Tim McGee exited the Navy Yard Metrorail station onto New Jersey Avenue. Of course, at this time of year Washington almost never cooled down; its incubator of hot air relentlessly guarded, seemingly, by overly-protective spirits who loathed the thought of anything below 95 degrees.

Nearby the varied chorus of sounds of construction sang out at the site of the new RFK Stadium ballpark, where the Washington Nationals would play, perhaps as soon as next April. I'm not a big baseball fan, Tim thought, but it would be nice to catch a game after work with Tony, now and then. He knew his team partner would kid him about his lesser knowledge of the sport and baseball stats, and Tim would pretend to know less than he did, and they would both drink overpriced beer and eat overpriced hot dogs, and enjoy the game immensely, whether the poor, league-bottom-dwelling Nationals won the game or not. Something to look forward to...

Tim had arranged for a "flex-lunch" for that day; he would put in the extra time taken for lunch at the end of his work day. It'd been worth it: with his sister's birthday approaching, he'd known he wanted to get her something from a little antiquarian book shop at Dupont Circle. The Metro was the fastest way there, and as the shop kept banker's hours (or what were called 'banker's hours' in his parents' day), lunchtime during the week was the only reasonable time to go, without actually taking time off work. Now he had his prize: a small, old book of Robert Burns' poems, nestled in a pocket of his sports coat.

From the Metro station to NCIS was about 3 /4 of a mile; only a ten minute walk. That would put him back at work at the time he'd projected he'd return. He stood at the intersection of New Jersey Avenue and M Street, waiting for the light to change so he could cross. He heard scattered, unintelligible phrases from a couple of men nearby; German or Polish or something. German had been one of his languages at school, and his attention was always caught when he heard it. The eternal summer haze, however, prevented him from seeing them clearly; they were too far away and there were too many reflections of sun on glass. A name-badge-wearing flock of conventioneers passed by in a sweaty procession, no doubt headed for the delectable air-conditioning of the nearby Marriott Courtyard Hotel. Lucky dogs... Tim's eyes flickered over to the CVS pharmacy across New Jersey Avenue, and he remembered that he'd meant to pick up a new razor when grocery shopping last night, but it had slipped his mind. If he went to the pharmacy, he could also get something cold to drink. It would only take a few minutes, but I should be heading back to work now...

The area was busy. A Japanese tourist group walked by, chattering amiably. A family from somewhere in the heartland, camera-laden, walked, stopped, and gawked; over and over. The two German-speakers (so it seemed; Tim caught maybe one distant word in five) came closer, then one crossed M Street. Tim's German was a little rusty now, and words taken out of context could mean anything. Tuning it out, Tim lifted his cell phone to his ear.

What a long light this is. Maybe the 'walk' signal is broken... "Hi, boss. Can I have another 15 minutes? I have one more errand to run."

One of the German-speakers (Swiss? Austrian? German? Tim couldn't pinpoint the country) came yet closer, and Tim realized he was hearing bits of his cell phone conversation. "...no guards? Unbelievable! A stroke of luck!"

"Okay, McGee," Gibbs said. "I'll need your tech report on the Dannon case when you get in."

"...we can take him! What a triumph this will be for the Revolution!"

Tim's eyes widened now at the sight of the dark-clothed German-speakers: one in front of the pharmacy; one on the other side of M Street; each with a high-powered gun pointed at him. There was no time to draw his own gun. "Uh, boss? I think I'm in trouble..."

Shots cracked the air, and people screamed and ran. With a cry, Tim fell into the street, in front of a small panel truck carrying produce. The driver slammed on the old vehicle's brakes, praying to God that he would be able to stop in time.