Okay, so here's a fic that's been rattling round in my brain for ages now. Sorry to those waiting for updates on "The Witching Hour" but I just can't seem to find my mojo at the moment – it might have something to do with a four day champagne-and-tequila bender, it might not – and frankly, who are you to judge? Be patient with me, and please review as you see fit! WARNING: this story touches on a few sensitive issues, namely child abuse. I have no intention of making light of such a terrible thing, rather I just want you all to be aware. If it's not your cup of tea, hit the back button on your browser. Disclaimer: I can barely pay my phone bill, so clearly I don't own these guys. Cheers!
The shrill, incessant ringing of his cell phone woke him from a surprisingly deep sleep. Cursing softly, he reached for the light before answering it. A phone call at 2 in the morning never meant good news, especially when it was his team on rotation that weekend. "Yeah, Gibbs," he mumbled, rubbing his spare hand over his face. He listened intently for a moment, grunted an agreement and hung up his phone. He climbed out of bed with an energy that he didn't feel, reaching for his clothes with one hand as his other hit speed dial #1. "DiNozzo... yeah, we got a case. Ring the others, tell them to get to get their asses to the Yard in 20 minutes, we'll head out together." He rang off without so much as a good-bye; his gut was clenching and it had nothing to do with the dubious curry his Senior Field Agent had sourced for their dinner.
The team showed no signs of the exhaustion they undoubtedly felt as they travelled together to the crime scene. It had been a long few weeks for the MCRT as they had worked case after case with little time for rest in between – the curse of being the top team in the agency. Very little was said as they arrived at the Quantico Marine Base, until they pulled up outside the house in question. There were people everywhere, as well as several cars.
"What the hell's going on here?" asked DiNozzo as they hopped out of the truck.
"Hostage situation," replied Gibbs curtly. He strode up to the MPs standing on the front lawn. "Who's in charge here?" he barked.
"Uh, that would be me sir," one of them replied nervously.
"What do we know so far?"
"This is the house of Lt. Commander Cameron Wilkerson. Neighbours heard screams approximately 45 minutes ago, rang us. We came down to see what was going on, then realised this was bigger than us. That's when we called you guys."
"Do we know whose inside?" Gibbs asked.
"The Commander is on tour at the moment – currently on the Reagan - so as far as we can tell it's his wife with some random guy. No word on the kid."
"There's a kid in there?" said DiNozzo incredulously. "And no one can account for him? Jesus Christ!"
Gibbs shot a look at his Agent that simply said 'calm down'. DiNozzo walked away to fill in his teammates on the situation so far, while Gibbs took a deep breath. "Has any contact been made with this so-called random?"
"Yessir," gabbled the MP, clearly trying to make up for the lack of control he had over the crisis. "He stuck his head out the front door before, said he's 'gonna kill the bitch' – and that's a direct quote. He's covered in blood; says he doesn't want anything except Mrs Wilkerson."
Gibbs nodded shortly, and called his team over. "We need to act now. McGee – what do we know about Wilkerson?"
McGee looked down at the phone in his hand. "Lt. Commander Cameron Wilkerson – 38, married to Alison, father to Zeke who's 5. Currently at sea on the Reagan; no record. Alison has one DUI recorded but is otherwise clean."
"Can we get eyes in there?"
"No chance Boss, not unless one of us goes in there." McGee gulped at the look that crossed over his Boss' face. Gibbs wanted to go in!
Fortunately, DiNozzo spotted that too. "Boss, that's just insane. That's a last resort, okay?" Gibbs scowled at the younger man. "Glare at me all you want, Boss, but if you go in there I'll shoot you myself."
Gibbs looked at the other two agents who were nodding in agreement with DiNozzo. He sighed in frustration, then pulled out his cell. "Do you mind if I call them?" he asked pointedly. McGee simply read out the home phone number that was listed. Gibbs shot one more evil look at his team, and walked away.
"What?" an angry voice snarled down the phone line.
"This is Special Agent Gibbs with NCIS. Who am I speaking with?" Gibbs kept his voice calm and moderated. If they were even a chance of getting the child out, there was no time to waste. They couldn't wait for hostage negotiators, it was time for action.
"What do you care who I am?"
"I care because I want to help. You're in a pile of shit as it is, but if you let me help you we can make some of it go away," Gibbs replied.
"Yeah, right! You get me to come outside, then someone puts a bullet through my brain. No fucking chance Special Agent Gibbs. This is my party and you're not invited!" The voice took on a slightly hysterical edge. "This bitch ruined my life!"
"How? Just what did she do? Believe me, nothing is so bad that it can't be fixed."
"And you know this how, oh high and mighty one? It's too late for me, so it's sure as hell too late for her." The voice cracked slightly. "She promised me that he was clean!"
"Promised you who was clean?" asked Gibbs urgently. He had a suspicion, but kept it to himself for the time being.
"Ah, fuck it – it doesn't matter now. Goodbye Agent Gibbs." The phone hung up. Gibbs quickly hit the redial button, but before the call could connect a shot rang out through the night. Several of the onlookers screamed.
"DiNozzo, David – take the back! McGee, you're with me," ordered Gibbs, and the team quickly sprang into action, guns drawn. "Keep that crowd under control!" he shouted back to the bewildered MPs. He ran up to the front door, and making sure McGee was covering him, kicked it in. The scene that met him stopped him in his tracks. Calling out "clear!" to the team, he re-holstered his weapon and surveyed the carnage.
DiNozzo and Ziva came in from the back, and seeing their boss and coworker surrounded by the blood of two bodies, lowered their guns. The four stood in the room horrified at the sight in front of them. Alison Wilkerson had been butchered – there was no other word for it. The perpetrator was lying a few feet from her, gun just out of his fingertips and a hole in his temple. A bloody chef's knife lay in the middle of the floor. Gibbs broke the haunting silence that had fallen on the room. "Let's get to work."