Memory is a strange thing. Was it really just an hour ago that I was sitting in the car, chatting away with Jim and Rick as we waited?
I remember I got out and closed the car door behind me, fully intending to find that my team had the anonymous tipster already willing to reveal what he knew.
Instead, all hell broke loose. The noise of the slammed car door was instantly answered by the deafening blast of an explosion. The store-front door and windows were shattered, and I felt myself twisting; flying backwards in a shock-wave of heat and flying debris.
Jimmy and Rick are dead!
It is the only thought I'm able to process. My burns, cuts and scrapes barely register. I don't even know when my arm was bandaged.
Another NCIS team has arrived on the scene. Well, of course they have. When something like this involves our own people, we want jurisdiction. But whose team? The silver hair beneath his navy blue cap; the determined, lined face and squared shoulders are unmistakeable. It's Leroy Jethro Gibbs. For a moment, my heart sinks. He's the last person I want to see. Somehow, I just know he'll find a way to find fault with me and hold me responsible, as if I'm not doing a good enough job of that, myself. But in a strange way, I'm also relieved. In spite of our differences, he's one of NCIS' best.
The smoke has cleared, but my mind has not. What went wrong? How could this have happened?
I finally muster the courage to approach the burned-out store. Everything I see is gray and colorless, in spite of the bright afternoon sun streaming through the two now-empty window frames and the empty doorway. Water is still falling in steady droplets from the destroyed ceiling from when emergency fire crews responded to the blast.
I'm trailing Agent McGee when I overhear a familiar voice say: "Why blow yourself up in an empty store?"
Now, instead of gray, I'm seeing red.
Tony DiNozzo.
How dare he?! How dare he take the deaths of my men so lightly?
"It wasn't empty, Tony!" I declare fiercely, feeling myself starting to unravel. Can't he see? Can't he see the mangled bodies that were once Rick Hall and James Nelson?! I gulp back another angry retort as I glance around the sooty room.
Oh, Jimmy... Lifeless and propped against one of the brick walls... The left side of his face has been hideously deformed by the blast. Heat and shrapnel have burnt and shredded away skin, hair and clothing.
Who's going to tell Amy about this? They've only been married two months...
And Rick...Rick's inert body is lying in the corner on the dirty, debris-covered floor; eyes closed, weapon still clutched in his right hand. A yellow #20 evidence marker sits near the top of his head.
In the middle of the room lie the charred, dismembered remains of the one responsible for all this. I'm not stupid. This third 'body' here belongs to that 'anonymous' caller. The bastard. He lured us here, and blew himself up! Now two fine, wonderful men, my men, my team - are dead!
Did they know? Did they sense what was about to happen when they walked into this trap?
I can't contain my emotions any longer, and I know I'm rapidly losing control. Rick and Jim are dead! It's my fault! My fault! I sent them in here to their deaths. In futility and disbelief, I put my hand to my head, trying to hold back my tears. I circle around aimlessly. I barely hear McGee whisper that this dreaded place had recently been rented out to a non-profit group.
"My fault...my fault..." the words tumble from my trembling lips. Tony tries to reassure me that it's not, but he wasn't here when it happened! He could never feel the burden of guilt as heavily as I feel it. Rick and Jim were my responsibility! They trusted me, and I let them down.
"I've killed my team!" I'm sobbing aloud now, and Gibbs gently guides me away from the scene, urging me to take my emotional outburst outside. I don't want to be touched by anyone right now, and I leave on my own steam and head for one of the NCIS trucks.
Gibbs has followed me, and I instantly bristle at his presence. I can anticipate why he's here: he's going to tell me exactly what I did wrong, and he's going to make sure I never forget it.
"I don't need a lecture from you right now, Gibbs; I really don't." I am aghast that I sound so anguished; voice quavering and uncontrolled. Weak. Incapable. Insecure. It's not how I want to be perceived by this man. I sit down in resignation, but I really just want to crawl into a hole and die.
Instead of words of admonition, Gibbs passes me a tissue. I don't expect a gesture of compassion from him, and it threatens to undo me further. I accept it in spite of myself, and dab at my streaming face and my runny nose.
He asks me about the anonymous call we received earlier that day.
So, it really is all business with him, after all. He wasn't really interested in how I was doing. He just wants to get on with the investigation. Well, that's fine. I tell him all I know, and I berate myself aloud this time.
"Oh, I should have gone in with those guys!" I cry in frustration, standing up in a rush of emotion.
"Yeah, then you'd be dead, too," Gibbs points out.
Fine. But would he be feeling the same way if it had been his team in there, all burned and bloodied by an incendiary device filled with ball-bearings and nails? I have a tough time believing he would.
"You wanna know the difference Paula?" Gibbs leans in closer and looks me straight in the eye: "It's that I wouldn't stop to grieve until I put the bastards responsible for this into the ground."
His words resonate within me. Part of me wants retribution. I want justice for Jim and Rick.
The other part of me is dying inside. I am a leader without a team. What agent in their right mind would ever want to be under my command after this?
I consider Gibbs' stern words about the 'bastards' that planned this bombing for a moment. At least one of them is dead, anyway. He's in pieces on the floor in that burned-out room. Was he working with anyone else? I don't know. I don't know what to think any more. But I do know that the investigation has only just begun, and they'd better not try to keep me away from it.
