Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS
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You can hear them coming for you. It's not hard, they're awfully noisy. You guess it's
because they don't expect you to be prepared. As they run into the room, you knock them out with the butt of your gun.
When they come around, you see that it's a man and a woman. Tony and Ziva, they call each other. You can tell by the way the talk and move that they are scared and that they are in love with each other. You've killed enough couples to tell.
There is a sense of doom in the air. You can feel it and they can, too. You saunter in, telling them to scream as loud and for as long as they want, no one will hear them. You tell them that they have twenty minutes to say goodbye. There's no escape for you-for them.-for anyone. You picked this spot for its remoteness.
You watch as the man pulls the woman in and tells her that he has been in love with her for so long. You watch as he apologizes for not saying it sooner. She is crying now-for her-for him who knows. She tells him that she feels the same and that she has never cried in front of anyone this much before. He cups his hand around her chin and brings her lips to his.
They stay like that for awhile. You are sorry they have to die. You are also sorry that it takes doom to bring these two together. For this reason, you decide to make their deaths as painless as possible. They are already suffering enough, you notice. They are kissing again, so lost in each other that they don't notice you enter.
You squint as you aim your gun. You don't need it to shoot, but you want your last victims to seem like a happy couple. You pull the trigger, and you see it go through his back, into her heart, and out into the wall behind her. They fall to the ground, still in that last kiss.
You feel bad that this is their end. If only they hadn't been chasing him, or if they'd only taken longer. You smirk as you realize that your last kills are the only ones you regret. You take some of his blood and some of hers and draw that familiar symbol of love. A heart.
You leave a note for their boss. You confess to the other six murders, twelve if you count singles. You explain the heart, how they looked like a couple. You leave your signature tape, this one not filled with screams, but their confession of love.
You open a window, letting the cool twilight air hit your face. You keep your eyes open, wanting your last image to be of the only truly merciful death you ever gave. You step back, admiring your handiwork. Something is missing and you use the rest of their blood to add it. You step back so your blood doesn't mix with theirs. You put the gun to your head. You pull the trigger. On the floor, underneath the heart are five little words. Till death do us part.