Sometimes, one doesn't have the luxury of waiting to discuss options; to make decisions. Sometimes, one has to grab at the most likely possibility, and run with it. Delay could be catastrophic.
That is why Gibbs and his team grabbed the van and raced the short distance to the Navy Yard Metro station. The Anacostia station was just about as close, but the Navy Yard station seemed more likely, since Tim, Gibbs thought, would probably have been headed inbound and then not eaten the extra minutes going to Anacostia. Gibbs hadn't any idea where McGee had gone on his flex lunch time; hadn't asked, and now he regretted that. If he'd known a little more, that might have given a clue to other stations he might be at. But he'd only asked for a 15 minute extension, so he must have been close by...Lord; I hope I'm right...
"Still no answer on his cell phone," Tony reported.
And we don't even know that he was in danger...but why would he say he was in trouble unless he meant it?
They parked in a bus zone on M Street, across from the Metro station, putting the flasher lights on. "Look! There's a crowd around something." Ziva pointed to the intersection of M and New Jersey. They ran.
"Keep back, everyone, please," begged a nervous policeman on the scene, looking all of about 16 years old; his face made even younger by a scattering of pimples. Probably came up from the detail at the ballpark construction site, and this may be his first real incident, Gibbs thought.
"No, please, stay back, sirs...oh. NCIS. S-Sorry," the young cop stammered; seeing their gear. "Oh, but this isn't your jurisdiction, sirs."
Gibbs stepped around him, and, looking down, caught his breath. "Yes, it is, Officer. That's my man."
He crouched beside Tim's still form and saw wounds on both sides of his head; the pooling blood now mixing with the oils of the street. Gibbs mentally crossed his fingers as he felt for a pulse; was hugely relieved to find one quickly.
"My truck, it stop in time. Did not hit him. God be praised," said a man wringing the hat in his hands. Indeed, the truck was only inches from Tim.
"Am-ambulance is coming now, sir," said the cop as one indeed pulled up.
Ziva was already scanning the area, now confident that her teammate would be in good hands. Wounds on both sides of the head? How likely was that? If there indeed had been gunshots, where did the gunmen go?
And Tony thought, Why McGee? He doesn't do anything to annoy anyone, other than being a geek...
"I'll go with the ambulance," Gibbs said to his team. "You two get statements, sweep the site, the usual."
"Okay, boss, but call us when there's news, will you?" Tony asked. "After all, it's not like we can go to the CVS and pick up a spare McGeek..." His tone was flippant, but the worry showed in his eyes.
- - - - -
"Aw, c'mon, boss; I'm fine! Really! Tell the doc you need me back at work!"
Gibbs crossed his arms and looked at his young team member with amused patience. Tim's head now sported bandages on both sides and he was mostly sitting up in the hospital bed. "The agency is not going to curl up and die without you, McGee. In the doc's opinion, you've got to stay overnight; so you stay overnight."
"But..." Tim beckoned Gibbs to come closer. "...I really don't like hospitals! No offense," he added to the doctor lazing at the wall.
"None taken."
"Then why do you spend so much time in them, McGee?" Gibbs couldn't help saying, not quite able to hold back the laugh.
Tony and Ziva swung in. "All done, boss. The nurse said McGee was – hey, you are awake, Probie! Tell me, why did you decide to take a nap on a hot street in August? Feeling cold, or something?"
"I didn't want to wait to get back to work and nap at my desk like you do, Tony," Tim snapped.
"Ooooh, touchy; touchy..."
"Tony, tell Gibbs I need to go back to work," Tim pleaded.
Tony exchanged a glance with Gibbs. "Uh...sure, Probie. You just stand up and walk out that door, and we'll all go back."
"See? Someone, finally, is making sense!" Tim swung his legs over the bed, stepped down...and promptly collapsed to the floor. "Ow," was all he said.
As he felt the draft on his back, he heard Ziva's chuckle. He knew her; knew that chuckle. Reddening, he threw a hand over the area where his hospital gown didn't close, and then accepted Tony's assistance in getting back into bed.
Gibbs eyed the doctor, who hadn't moved. The doctor only shrugged and said, "You special agents are an endless source of humor. I'm glad we get so many of you. I live for moments like these." He walked out with twinkling eyes.
"McGee, you were unconscious for about an hour," Gibbs said. "They need to keep you here, under the microscope, to see if they find anything in that hard head of yours. No more arguments, now. We need to hear from you what happened."
Tim sighed, resigned. "There were two guys, dressed in black. They had high-powered guns. One was standing at the CVS, and the other across M Street. One, I guess, moved there to get into a better position to fire at me."
"But why you, Probie? What did you do to tick them off?"
"Nothing! They were speaking in German to each other and I heard one say something about it being a stroke of luck and this would be a great thing for the revolution. Whatever that was about. Then...well, that's all I remember."
"The wound on the right side of your head is where a bullet grazed you," said Gibbs. "As for the wound on the left side..."
"That must have been the high-speed impact of your phone against your head, McGee," said Ziva, showing him the mangled remains of his cell phone. "I'd guess that a bullet hit it dead center. If you hadn't had your phone right up there, we'd have been picking you up in, ah, messy pieces off New Jersey Avenue."
"Oh, Abby will like this," Tony remarked, fingering the phone parts. "She's starting a museum in her lab of inanimate objects that serve their humans unusually well."
"Well, I still don't understand why they shot at me," Tim sighed, and started to shake his head, then thought better of that as the room spun.
Ziva had looked away to check her notes on the witness statements. "Well, four people that I talked to said they saw the black-clothed men pointing at you before they got out their guns, and..." her voice trailed off as she did a double take. "Look, McGee; you're on TV!"
"What?!"
The set was tuned to CNN, the volume on mute. The scene was clearly of Tim, walking across a lush green lawn closely followed by men in suits and sunglasses. Tim wore a dark sports coat over a deep red shirt with a sober necktie, and had a certain...bearing.
"Probie? Is that the...Rose Garden??"
Tim could only stare. "That can't be me. I've never been to the White House. And I don't own a shirt that color."
"Well, then, who the hell—"
"It sure looks like you, McGee," said Gibbs, looking around for the remote control to turn up the volume.
The bottom of the screen then, finally showed an identifier. HRH Prince Friedrich of Nordhavland at the White House.
The three turned and stared at Tim, back at the TV, and back at Tim. Gibbs swore. "I'll bet they speak German in Nordhavland. I'd better call the Director. The CIA's going to want to know about this... Prince Timothy," he added.