"They're saying he walked here…"
The voices drift through his mind.
He hears them on the other side of that blue curtain, but he doesn't listen.
He's too busy thinking. Trying to put things together.
"To the hospital? Jesus! Why didn't someone pick them up?"
Red.
There was a lot of red.
He remembered that.
No. He remembers that.
Lots of red.
He still sees flakes of it under his nails.
Sees it drying on his skin. Hardening under the bandages, wraps, and butterfly stitches.
Only the saline stops it from leaving through the IV.
"Someone did pick em up, but it was on McMormick. Someone said they were originally on Jefferson."
He stares at the IV hard. Tries to remember when it was put in. Then he's drifting again.
Can't focus. Can't remember. Everything is fuzzy.
His head is pounding. He can barely swallow.
He remembers the ache being worse. Now it's stagnated. Improving minutely.
He assumes the IV was helping with that.
"Jefferson? That's gotta be at least six miles east… In this heat?"
Jefferson. He was in Jefferson.
They're talking about him.
His sluggish mind works to draw a connection.
"Yeah. That's what they're saying."
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
Hours earlier…
Tony distantly wonders when he started to getting the brunt of these kind of assignments.
The assignments that always involved getting dirty, traveling far, and performing other means of trivial work that seemed to utilize much more input than output.
Then again someone has to teach the Probie and the brunette feels an odd sense of pride that Gibbs chose him.
Granted there wasn't much of an choice. McGee was more apt with the technological aspect of things anyway. All the computer coding and decryption was never much of a burden for him.
So when Gibbs assigns him with Bishop and sends them off towards Jefferson, Tony doesn't question it and finds himself behind the wheel of a NCIS van that kicks up orange dust as it shuttles down the dirt road.
"What? You actually liked Rescue Dawn?"
"Yeah. Is that a problem?'
"Is that a problem? Of course it's a problem!"
"Look all I'm saying it's nice to see a different perspective once in a while. Besides everyone loves a good survival story."
"Yeah, a survival story that makes sense!"
The former NSA analyst shrugs and looks down at her phone.
"Cell signal's spotty."
"That always happens once you get into the back country, Probi- Wait hey don't change the subject! You know that movie sucked. Batman couldn't even bring it from it's grave! It was a box office failure!"
Bishop grinned.
"Box office failures can turn into cult classics you know."
"Well you can call me when that happens."
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
When he first joined the force, he believed that the worse thing that could possibly happen to him would be the Case.
He'd been told by almost everyone in that line of work, that he, as an active field agent, would inevitably, one day, face The Case. The Case that would define their career. The one that would haunt them once they retired, would linger in their minds when they showered or ate or played with their children.
So he prepared for the Case. Feared the Case. Saw it as the worst possible scenario.
Then he almost dies from a bout with the pneumonic plague after a woman sends him a letter infected with a near lethal genetically altered colony of bacteria and he realized that being a cop, being an agent, came with its risks. And he had reevaluate his death as the worst possible scenario.
Then Kate got shot. And Ziva leaves.
And now he doesn't know anymore.
The beeping machines grate harshly in his ears.
Like someone was screeching a metal chair across the tiled floor.
Like someone was dragging nails along a chalkboard.
The sound reverberates painfully in his head. Making him wince with each consecutive ring.
Of course no one is here to see it.
He is alone in this hospital room. Completely alone.
But he is too nauseous, too queasy, too worried to do anything. Too out of it to ask for help.
Not that anyone has offered up any information. Even when he knows they're out there.
He can hear them on the other side of the curtain.
Hears the movements of the gurneys.
The squeaking of the nurses shoes.
The beeping of their pagers.
Tony remembers a nurse coming in earlier.
Asking questions about his name, date of birth, and the order of events that led them here.
And he remembers being too delirious to answer anything. At least to her satisfaction.
Maybe he got his name out. Maybe he didn't. Everything is tending to bleed together.
Then she leaves and he is left here alone to try and put together what happened.
As time passes Tony slowly feels the delirium drip away and gradually gains more control of his thoughts.
His hands still feel prickly and heavy.
His limbs are still lethargic.
But he no longer feels like his head is about to explode.
Still, he finds himself wishing that the pain was still there.
Because now he is remembering. Images flash by him.
A truck. Flashing lights. The doctors. The red.
And the anxiety worsens.
Tony takes a breath. Tries to steady himself. Tries to stay calm.
There's a protocol for this kind of thing. There is a list of things he has to follow when things happen like this. He just has to remember it.
Follow the protocol and everything will be fine.
It will be like it never happened. Just follow the protocol.
First step. Contact your superior officer.
Gibbs. He needed Gibbs.
The blue curtain yanks open, revealing a slim woman in scrubs who takes him from his thoughts.
She smiles at him.
"Sir? How are you feeling?"
He ignores her question as he tries to organize his thoughts.
"I…"
Everything is more than a little foggy. But he needs to do this.
He needs to contact Gibbs.
Needs to let him know that the case went horribly wrong, if he didn't know already.
"I… My name is Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo."
His voice still sounds thick and unnatural and very far away. Even in his own ringing ears.
"I work with the Naval… the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I need you to contact my superior officer. His name is… Leroy Jethro Gibbs."
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
Things happen fast. Almost too fast. After they pull up.
He remembers the doors slamming shut behind them as they head to the porch.
Remembers swiping the sweat away because the temperature is pushing up into the low hundreds.
He remembers the creaking of the rotting wooden doorsteps.
Remembers knocking. That solid knock in rapid succession.
The same knock he's done for years now without even thinking.
Sees Bishop reach for her badge, while he reaches for his.
When the door opens, it's a man.
Young. Muscular. Heavily tattooed.
Something between a grimace and a smirk on his face.
Something between discontent and anger in his eyes.
Not at all like the seventy something year old veteran Albert Hobbs they were sent to interview.
Not at all.
"I'm Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo and this is Probationary Agent Ellie Bishop. We're from the Naval Criminal-"
Tony can barely finish the standard introduction before the unknown man shoves past him, not even pausing to look back.
For a second Tony thinks about just letting him run.
There's not much out here anyways. No burgeoning forests, no neighboring houses. The last evidence of any type of neighbor had been an abandoned windmill about three miles back. It would have been the equivalent of running across Kansas. Flat and uneventful. There was no point in getting heat stroke over the guy.
For a second Tony thinks about all of this.
For a second Tony almost considers.
Then he sees the glint of silver in the man's hand.
How something is vaguely pointed their way as the man tries to put distance between them.
Then he hears the shots.
A gun.
Like clockwork, Tony pulls out his service weapon, takes cover behind what's left of a porch wall, and returns the fire.
Bullets whistle past him. Embedding themselves in the wood, puncturing the glass windows, burrowing into the ground.
The shots they fire back possess more accuracy.
He thinks one of them managed to clip the mystery man's leg.
Because the man is limping when he dives behind their NCIS transport.
Though now that the man had taken cover, their weapons are rendered practically useless.
Because their bullets only ricochet off the metal hood, hitting the tires, sending up clumps of dirt.
But the other man continues to fire. Leaving him to think if the weapon he saw was a pistol or an automatic.
Tony narrows his aim.
Waits for the man to make a mistake and step away from the safety of the vehicle.
He's too caught up in trying to stop the shooter that he doesn't hear the pained gasp behind him.
Doesn't hear the sound of three weapons firing go down to two.
Then he gets lucky.
The guys steps out further then he probably attended too.
One shot from his service weapon ends it all.
"T… Tony?"
He turns.
"Bishop call it in. I'm going to check on our mystery-"
Then he sees Bishop.
Truly sees her.
Her eyes are dilated. Wide and filled with confusion. Like she isn't exactly sure what just happened.
She's swaying slightly on her feet like she wants to fall but hasn't quite made that decision.
The grip on her service weapon looks weak - loosely held - but it's still pointed in the general direction of the man.
Something is wrong.
Bishop's been in a shoot out before. She knows what to expect. She should know what to expect.
Something is wrong.
Then he sees the red.
The plume of red spreading just between where her police vest ends and her belt loop starts.
So much red. Red. Red.
He remembers Kate.
Remembers that red.
No no no. This wasn't happening. This wasn't fucking happening.
"Hey, Hey. Let's sit down okay?"
He speaks for both his and her sake, as he holsters his weapon. Rushes to her side.
He grabs her gun, so he doesn't need to worry about friendly fire, shoves the piece into his spare holster.
And as if that were a signal, the former NSA analyst stumbles away from him. The hand not covering her wound unsteadily reaching out for the wall for support.
Tony reaches for her anyway and when he does the blonde buckles towards the ground.
"H- He shot me?"
It's phrased like a question, but there's such a finality to it that he knows she knows the answer.
So he doesn't reply.
Instead he stares at the crimson bubbling from her side.
What was he supposed to do?
Put pressure on it. Okay. He needs to put pressure on it.
No. What he needs is a doctor. But a doctor isn't here.
So pressure. Pressure.
"He… I… I got shot."
Bishop sounds lost. So lost.
The brunette lifts her blood soaked shirt. Ignores the hot liquid feeling of crimson as he probes for the entrance wound. Finds it when she groans loudly and tries to squirm away.
"No. Ellie you have to stay still."
It's oozing red. Seeping red.
He grimaces.
Where is the exit wound?
Where is it?
He feels her back.
Nothing.
He can't remember if that's good or bad.
"Bishop? Hey Bishop, look at me."
The blondes eyes are scrunched tightly shut.
Her normally cheerful demeanor is twisted into a painful grimace, but eventually she looks at him.
"I need you to put pressure on it."
He moves her hand for her, pressing it firmly against the oozing crimson.
"Keep your hand here okay?"
Bishop mumbles something back, but she doesn't move her hand.
Without asking he lifts her into a fireman's carry and stumbles toward the van.
Carefully. Very carefully, he deposits her in the passenger seat.
Grabs the closest thing he can see.
A towel, a cloth, a something or other.
His hands are trembling now, warm fingers moving to stop the vivid red of Ellie's blood from pulsing out of her with every beat.
Pressing the cloth down with more force than he probably needs.
"Keep this here okay?"
For a second, Tony thinks the blonde is ignoring him.
She seems to be concentrating on staying absolutely as still as possible.
Then she nods.
Satisfied, Tony closes the door.
Pulls out his phone as he rounds the corner to the drivers side.
He's met with the dial tone.
No signal.
He ignores what that's alluding too.
Refuses to believe what that could mean.
Tony pauses to check the pulse of the fallen shooter.
Dead.
A small hole in the left side of his head guarantees that.
Good riddance.
He slides into the drivers seat and shoves the keys into the ignition.
Forces himself to listen to Bishop's labored breathing.
Forces himself to be grateful for that.
Because if she's still breathing, she's still alive.
The engine coughs, sputters, smokes.
The car doesn't start.
Tears cloud his vision.
No.
He tries again.
Smoke.
No.
Pops the cover.
When he does he sees two holes in the hood.
Small and circular.
Bullet holes.
The engine is shot.
The brunette jumps out the car.
Slams the hood back down.
Salty tears spill over when he sees the bloody handprints left behind.
Tony jerks away.
No. He can't cry. Not in front of her.
She doesn't need to know how shitty the situation is.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
When the blue curtain opens again, it isn't a nurse.
It's a cop.
A real police officer.
Not one of the mall cop variety.
The officer asks the same questions the nurse did and then refuses to answer any of Tony's own.
"Please! I just need to know how she's doing."
"Sir. I'm sorry. I'm not able to divulge in patient information if you don't have any familial relation. Now will you please answer the question. "
"You guys aren't listening! I told the nurse I work at NCIS. She was supposed to call the my supervisor, Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. The guns you found, those are service weapons. Now please, will you tell me how my friend, my partner, is doing! Can you at least ask a nurse? I just need to know if she's going to be okay."
It sounds like he's begging.
In fact, he is begging .
And the desperation feels thick in his throat.
If his worry impacted the officer it didn't show.
The cop only inspects him suspiciously and then writes something down in his notebook.
"I'll see what I can do."
Then Tony is alone again.
Alone.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
When Tony runs his hands through his sweaty hair, he feels the beginning of a migraine.
The boiling sun is still rising into the sky and its heat is scorching his skin even under his sweat, red soaked shirt.
But he can't bring himself to go back to the car.
She needs a hospital.
A doctor.
That's what she needs.
But the car isn't working.
There's no signal on either of their phones.
He can't even remember seeing a car pass them in the forty minute commute.
They weren't supposed to check in with Gibbs until another two hours.
Which means Gibbs isn't going to check in for another two hours.
So they've already broken Rule Number 3. Never be unreachable.
And now he's standing in front of a dead body of a man who wasn't supposed to be at a house of the man they were sent to interview but was never actually there.
And now Bishop's bleeding.
And there's no exit wound.
He kicks the car furiously.
They can't stay here.
Two hours is a long time.
And the blonde was losing too much blood.
He could wait on the street.
But the odds of a car passing are slim to none.
They need to leave.
If they leave maybe they can find a car.
Or at least a cellular signal.
They need to leave.
He moves to the passenger's side.
She isn't looking any better.
Her skin has taken on a sickly pale color.
The red is seeping into her denim jeans, trying to get through the cloth pressed against her side.
Spreading.
"Hey Bish. Keep talking to me okay? You're going to be fine. But we can't stay here."
He begins to lift her out of the seat. Lifts her into his arms.
"It hurts…"
"Look. Don't think about that. Don't think about it. Just talk to me. Focus on me. I want you to tell me… about the first movie you ever saw. Can you do that for me?"
"I.. what?"
"Your first movie. Tell me about it."
And he starts to walk.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
"Tony!"
The blue curtain rips open once more.
It's McGee. Sweaty and flustered as he scans his teammate for injuries.
"Tony! Are you okay? What happened?"
Tony has never felt more grateful to see a familiar face in his life.
"I.. I don't know Tim. The case went wrong. The… There was… I don't think Albert Hobbs was ever there McGee. Because when we went up a different man answered. And he just started shooting. I tried to-
His words spill over one another when he begins to ramble.
"-call. But there was no signal. And then the phone died… We had to leave the car there…"
The computer specialist looks up from the hospital chart that he's moved to look at.
"Don't worry about that. We sent Ducky and Palmer up ahead to Jefferson with two or three police officers. They're handling the damage."
Tony looks away from Tim, turns back to his red crusted fingernails.
Becomes abnormally quiet.
Then in a small voice he asks.
"Is she going to be okay Tim? They won't tell me anything."
Tony looks up and he sees Tim set down the chart. Sees him wring his hands together nervously.
"Gibbs is talking to the nurse now. They didn't tell us much over the phone. Just that you guys were in the hospital."
McGee's avoiding his eyes.
He's not telling him something.
"Tim. Please."
"She's… She's still in surgery."
Tim must see the devastation sweep over Tony's face because he hastens to reassure him.
"Tony. It's okay. She's going to be fine. Some of the best doctors are working on her right now."
She's going to be fine. She's going to be fine.
He repeats this mantra over and over again in his head.
Repeats this mantra until he has complete confidence in it.
She's been through worse.
She's going to be fine.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
His head is killing him.
Other parts of him ache too.
Tony's feet hurt. His dress shoes weren't meant for this kind of walking.
His arms burn with the strain it takes to carry Bishop.
But mostly it is his head.
Sharp pain pulsates and punctures his mind with each step.
His vision swims and twists with every movement.
His skin is fire.
His tongue is akin to sandpaper behind his chapped lips.
But still he walks.
Because he knows any pain he feels is minuscule compared to what Bishop is feeling.
They had talked through her first movie, her first job, how she was recruited to the NSA.
He had even got her to name every single person in her family.
But her speech gradually turns from stuttering to slurring.
And she starts complaining about how cold it is.
Shivering in his arms in one hundred and six degree heat.
And the red is everywhere.
He can feel it gradually seeping into his shirt.
Sees the red drips on the ground.
"T-Tony."
He looks down at her.
Sees the pain.
"I d-don't wanna… I don't w-wanna… don't wanna die."
There's so much fear interwoven into those few slurred words.
"You're not gonna die, Bishop. You're going to be fine. Just stay with me okay? Stay with me."
His own delirium impacts him as he walks.
Stumbling.
Staggering.
But he continues forward because he has too.
Because she needs him too.
By the time a truck, a red truck with mud stained sides, stops for them, she had stopped speaking.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
Hours have passed.
Gibbs is with him now.
Abby too.
McGee drifts in and out for updates.
Tony's ball of nerves work themselves up to an impossible height.
Then a doctor steps in.
Tall and somber.
Clad in his white lab coat.
Looks at all of them.
Then looks down as he clears his throats.
And just like that it happens.
Just like that.
She's gone.