She shouldn't have come back to Washington. Coming back to the city had been her biggest mistake- second only to leaving in the first place. She missed the days when she'd swagger into seedy bars much like the one she was approaching, with unmatched confidence, and a badge on her hip.
But that had been a lifetime ago, before her world was taken apart with bullets and shattered glass. She was thinner now, her hair shorter, and the circles under her eyes never vanishing. And this time, she didn't have anyone watching her back.
Opening the door to the bar, she made her way over to the bartender, pulling herself onto a bar stool. She'd come here due to a mixture of gut instinct and unreliable information, washing down the anxiety with a swig of lower-end bourbon, staring at herself in the mirror behind the bar. But there was a situation, anxiety had to be put aside, and there was no one left to solve this problem; no one but her.
Playing dead had only gotten so far.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the little kitty." The voice had a drawl, but its owner sounded as though they'd smoked a pack of cigarettes an hour. "How many lives you got left in you? At least seven, by my count."
She turned, raising an eyebrow. "I did not come here for the witty repartee, you understand. I was promised information."
"C'mon then, kitty cat," he grinned, which only served to irritate her further. He knew that she was reliant on whatever he told her, so he could try to get under her skin. She needed the information, but didn't want to humour this donkey's butt.
Horse's ass. Flip the switch. You're back, sweetheart.
"Where are we going?" she asked, tearing her mind away from the painful memories. "This was not part of our bargain, Mr. Beauchamp. My family won't be appreciative if you kill me."
"Last I heard," he smirked, "All your closest kin thought you were deader than a doornail. Including that paramour you left behind. Or wasn't that what you wanted them to believe?"
She kept her face an impassive mask, trying to avoid thinking, avoid feeling. As she followed him out of the bar, she reminded herself: she had survived worse than a slimy informant.
A slimy informant, was in fact nothing compared to the crooks, thieves, spies and liars she'd dealt with in her line of work. Once in the back alley, she appraised him, narrowing her eyes at her source of information, a self-proclaimed Southern gentleman. "What can you tell me about the Gemcity file?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
"Why? I'd heard you were back in the game, but were you lookin' to add his name to your kill list? Sorry kitten, that job is taken. You came a wee bit too late."
"By who?" she demanded.
"By whom, you mean." He was smug, as he grinned, "You could stand a few grammar lessons, puss."
"Who has the file?" She reached around to the gun she kept tucked in the back waistband of her pants, and his eyes narrowed.
"Ah, ah, ah," he shook a finger at her. "Whatever you're planning, honey, it's not happenin'."
She pulled the gun from its hiding place, "I want the information. You said you would give it to me. I was under the impression that I was dealing with a professional."
He snorted, quirking an eyebrow, his smirk growing. "Ooh. Kitten's got claws. One of my men pulled the short straw. He's on the job right now. I'd offer a team-up, but I don't hold with rogue assassins, even if they are freshly resurrected from the grave, and rarin' to go."
She smiled, "I am sure you don't like to disappoint a lady."
"Sorry, kitten, maybe we can work somethin' out in your next go round."
"Why is the file of interest to you?" she asked, holding up the gun. He eyed it, as though sizing up the threat. He valued his life, enjoyed his job of pretending to be threatening. As much as he acted like the puppet master, she knew him to be nothing more than a mook, a chess piece for the real masters of the game. She was playing, he was trying to.
"That man's got some enemies, don't ya know? An influential genius like him?"
"One would think," she chose her words carefully, "that geniuses are in short supply."
"World's full of 'em. They'll get over the loss of one measly one who wrote a couple of page turners and tapped on a keyboard. Nowadays, could probably train a monkey to do his job better 'n him."
"The same way my family got over me?"
His face changed, "Darlin', I think you're new to this part of the game, so let me share a little somethin' with ya: that rabble-rousin' posse you call family moved on. They finished with you before you was even cold in your non-existent grave. You think they'll welcome you back with open arms, girlie? After all you put those people through?"
"They would be glad to know I am alive."
"Playing possum has a cost, kit. Hope you're ready to pay it."
"I will settle my debts. To do that, though, Mr. Beauchamp, I'll need the name of your partner. The one who has the file I am interested in."
"No can do, sweetheart. Confidential. I'm sure you understand."
"Like the plot to kill me? I am not a fool." She held the gun higher, "Do not make me kill you."
"Listen here, honey. You're not a fool, but ya only stayed alive through running. My boy is a little more discreet than you are."
"The name," she stepped closer, holding out her gun.
"And here I thought motherhood made you softer, sweetcheeks. What's next? Take up like your daddy and ruin people's lives? Or your brother, that charming fellow, go around sniping innocents? Lotta ghosts for someone so young."
She spat the words, "I am not my father, nor am I my brother. They are dead. I am alive." And then she fired her gun, double-tapping Beauchamp in the chest. She moved over his fallen body, "I am much worse. Now, tell me the name."
"Gordon. Hugh Gordon." He grinned up at her, "Bitch."
"And where would I find this Hugh Gordon?"
"Carlisle. Indiana."
"Intriguing location. Must have good intel to be sent so far from here." She smiled down at him. "I think it's time he and I have a conversation. I'd like to find out more, from him. Please, don't cry out. Not very dignified."
"Almost… as dignified as your fiery end. Go to hell, kitten." It was a ragged gasp, the final words jagged.
"I'll get there eventually." She sauntered away. "But first I've got seven lives to go. Shalom, Mr. Beauchamp."
It had started drizzling, so she pulled her hood up as she walked away, sighing at the feel of the rain on the healing burns of her hands. She left the two-bit mercenary bleeding out on the pavement behind her. She had once made a promise, and it was one worth coming out of hiding for. She was not dead. Not yet. And now she was on a mission more important than anything. Instead of going back to taking lives, Ziva David planned to save one.