A/N: We are very grateful for the alerts and very encouraging reviews, (including those we were unable to reply to personally.) We hope you enjoy this chapter as we build the investigation and establish Tony's cover~ Lyn & Laine

Disclaimer: We do not own the characters mentioned herein and any copyright infringement is unintentional.

The Insider

Chapter Two

The morning before the basketball game, Tony met with PFC Roberts to go over their cover story, reaffirming Tony's ID as Michael Sloan, currently unemployed storeman and Roberts' former basketball team-mate from Baltimore.

Roberts had already spoken with Morne' Botha and mentioned that Sloan had come to Washington looking for work and as their basketball team was short-handed, Roberts had invited him to join him for tomorrow night's game.

"I know you're an experienced player," Roberts said. "But we're playing the Brentwood Bullets tomorrow. Believe me, they could make a team of drill sergeants cry."

"Brentwood Bullets?" Tony repeated. "What's the name of our team?"

"The Michigan Park Marauders. We play at nineteen hundred, on court three at Vinnie's Indoor Sports on 6th Street NE. You know it?"

"Yeah, I know it."

"Just remember, the Bullets talk tough and they're huge…they use their size to intimidate and dominate their opponents. They're undefeated in the comp and handed us our asses last time we played them."

"Relax…I can handle it," Tony said.

"I'm just saying," Roberts continued. "As point guard, these guys are gonna target you. We'll give you as much cover as we can, Sir, but don't expect the ref to keep things clean. In this comp the refs are there mainly to keep score and handle the jump balls."

"Roberts…I'll worry about my game but you slip up and call me 'sir' - just once - and this thing's over for both of us. You don't think you can handle this, now is the time to say so."

"I'll handle it, Si-"

Tony winced as the young Marine slipped up again.

"I'll handle it," Roberts corrected with conviction.

"Good," Tony replied, placing a ten dollar bill with the check and getting ready to leave. "Go home and hug your wife and kid. See you at the game tonight."

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Later that afternoon, Gibbs strode quickly into the lab to find Abby working at her computer.

"Ya get anything from Interpol and our Naples office about Jacques Botha?" he asked.

"And good afternoon to you, too, Gibbs?" she teased. "Hey, no Caf-Pow?"

"Depends on what you got for me."

"Do I look like the type of girl who can be bought? Don't answer that," she grinned before getting down to business. "Neither Interpol or our Europe and Africa field office have anything on Jacques or Morne' Botha. I even ran the names through various South African national intelligence agencies. Nothing!"

"Most South African agencies weren't formed until 1994 after the democratic elections," Gibbs explained. "A lot of intel prior to that was lost."

"I know but I should have got a hit when I ran them through US Immigration…I mean…unless they were, like, beamed into the country by the US Enterprise."

"The aircraft carrier?"

"No, Gibbs, the starship…you know, Captain Kirk, Mr Spock, beam me up, Scotty?"

Gibbs shrugged.

"Geez, Gibbs, were you born forty years old? Never mind. The Botha's had to go through Immigration somewhere, right? I got nothing! Nix, nada, niente, zip, zero, zot, zilch…"

"Abs?"

"Sorry, but this case has got me as frustrated as a hooker at a party full of eunuchs," Abby continued. "The Botha's can't be illegal immigrants because their social security numbers are legit, the IRS found no anomalies with their taxes and when Morne' Botha was arrested in 1999, Metro PD would have checked his residency status. I don't get it!"

"Sounds like they were relocated here by one of the alphabets. NSA? CIA? Take your pick," Gibbs suggested.

"Here's an idea! What if you contact the CIA and ask if they have a file on the Botha's? Then ask them to allow us access in the spirit of interagency co-operation!" Abby suggested with more than a modicum of sarcasm.

"Doesn't work that way."

"Yeah…I know," Abby sighed. "The CIA doesn't share or play well with others."

"You okay, Abs?"

"I'm worried about Tony going undercover," she admitted. "I wanted to give you more information on the Botha's so we knew what he was getting into."

"He's a grown man and an experienced undercover operative. He can take care of himself."

"I know…but I still worry."

"That's why we love you," he whispered before placing a soft kiss on her cheek and leaving the lab.

Touching her fingers to her cheek, Abby smiled.

"Can't get that from Caf-Pow!"

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Keen to rid himself of the nervous excitement that he felt whenever he went undercover, Tony arrived at the indoor sport centre an hour before the scheduled start of play. He walked toward the bleachers at the back of the large complex, looking for court three. Games were still in progress on courts one and two but court three was currently vacant.

He scanned the throng of players and spectators for PFC Roberts but didn't see him. Finding a seat on the front row of the bleachers, he shrugged out of his jacket and completed a series of warm-up stretches. He unzipped his sports bag, removed his basketball and dribbled it to the far end of the court at a slow jog before honing his lay-ups and jump shots.

"Nice basket," the voice sounded close behind him as Tony swished a three-pointer from the top of the key.

Turning quickly, Tony found himself staring into the chest of the speaker and tilted his head back slowly until he looked up into the smiling face. The man stood closer to seven feet tall than six and outweighed Tony by close to forty pounds.

"Mind if we join you?" the man asked. "We've got a game here in a while and we'd like to warm up."

Tony looked around the huge man and saw several other men walking toward them, each one standing six and a half feet and then some. Tony recalled Roberts telling him that their opposing team was huge and intimidating…the young Marine's assessment was spot on.

"You guys must be the Bullets," Tony replied extending his hand. "I'm Michael Sloan, I'm playing with the Marauders today."

He tried not to flinch as his hand was completely engulfed by the huge right mitt of the Bullets' captain, Ty Stewart, as the man grasped his hand in a firm shake and introduced himself.

"You got a minimum height rule?" Tony remarked jovially.

"No-one under six and a half feet," Stewart replied with a smile. "Anyone shorter than that has their brains too close to their ass. No offence."

"None taken," Tony laughed with the instantly likeable giant.

The other players gathered around and despite his six foot two inch and 180-pound stature, Tony suddenly felt decidedly puny.

"You play centre?" he asked Richards hopefully.

"No, man. I play point guard."

Tony's smile froze in place as he realised he'd just met his opposite number. 'Great,' he thought. 'The boss is counting on me to impress Morne' Botha and I'm guarding a guy who makes Shaquille O'Neal look like Steve Urkel.'

The Bullets included Tony in a few practice drills and some three on three, sharing in some friendly banter and casual joking.

"Hey, Mike!" Tony turned toward the bleachers where PFC Roberts waved his hand and smiled. "You decide to swap teams? Get your ass over here!"

Saying a quick thanks to the Bullets, Tony jogged over to where Roberts stood with Morne' Botha and three other men. Keeping up appearances they slapped each other on the back enthusiastically before stepping back as Roberts introduced his friend Michael Sloan to the other members of his team.

"You know those guys?" Botha asked, pointing with his chin toward the Brentwood Bullets as they continued their warm up at the far end of the court.

"Met them about thirty minutes ago," Tony replied. "They seem like a good bunch of guys."

He watched as the other men nudged each other and laughed.

"Did I miss something?" he asked.

"Guess you'll find out soon enough," Botha replied, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. "The minute you step on court, those guys will come at you like you knocked up their sisters and bad-mouthed their mothers."

"Or vice versa," the very tall, redheaded Callaghan said.

Tony smiled, not quite sure whether he was the brunt of some private joke.

The men discarded their sweats and pulled on the red Marauders jerseys as they discussed their positions for today's game; Tony, (point guard,) Roberts, (shooting guard,) Botha, (small forward,) Price, (power forward,) Callaghan (centre,) and Benton (utility sub.)

They had just enough time for some quick warm-up drills when the ref blew the whistle and called for the tip off.

As the players took the court, Tony extended a hand to his opposite in a quick gesture of sportsmanship, only to withdraw it as if scalded when he caught the cold, ascetic look in the large man's eyes.

"Hope you kissed your mama at the bus stop, fairy floss…'cause I'm takin' you to school!" Stewart growled.

Tony was as competitive as they come but he could scarcely believe the transformation from the likeable man he'd met less than an hour before. He quickly turned to see PFC Roberts give him an 'I told you so' shrug from across the court.

Callaghan entered the jump circle to contest the tip off for the Marauders. Tony noticed that their tallest player was still several inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than the Bullets smallest man.

Gaining possession from the tip off, the Bullets came out of the first quarter gate at full throttle, using their size to out-hustle and out-muscle the smaller Marauders team and racing to a 16-0 lead in the first five minutes of play. Their superior height kept the ball away from the Marauders' desperately grasping hands, virtually starving them of possession and out-rebounding them at both ends of the court.

Playing to their usual game plan the Bullets effectively shut the Marauders out of the game with an aggressive and smothering defence. Turnovers and steals became commonplace for the Marauders as Tony struggled to create scoring opportunities for his team.

His frustration levels increased to the delight of his primary defender, Ty Stewart whose attempts to keep the Marauders' point guard off his game with arrogant trash talk were coming up trumps. "Hey short stuff, the pee wee league wants you back," and "when I'm done with you, I'm gonna have to roll over and light a cigarette," seemed to be favourites in Stewart's verbal arsenal.

At the end of the first period, the Bullets had opened up a lead of 28-6 and the Marauders were looking at another pasting.

Early in the second quarter, the Bullets increased their lead to 43-12. Throughout the game, Ty Stewart continued to goad Tony with his loud-mouthed, over the top, trash talk but, although irritated, Tony chose not respond and kept his mind on the game. Midway through the period, he felt a slight change in the tempo of the game.

As he took the inbounds passes and brought the ball back down court, he realised his teammates were making more breaks on the defence and although their rebound percentages were still poor, they were beginning to nail their long and midrange goal attempts.

Sensing an opportunity, Tony's game lifted immediately. His court vision kicked into gear resulting in several successful blind passes, two great leads for his receivers that left defenders floundering angrily and had the Bullets calling a time-out. As they huddled just off court, they realised a change in tactic was required.

Immediately after the resumption of play and with the lead narrowed to 45-19, the Bullets renewed their focus on shutting down the point guard – whatever it took. With three minutes remaining before the half time interval, the deceptively fast Ty Stewart took an inbounds pass and powered down court. Reading the play, Tony planted both feet firmly on the floor, watching his opposite bear down on him like a charging rhino. He was taken completely by surprise when Stewart threw a huge forearm that struck him a sickening blow to the face and had him crashing to the ground with blood streaming from his nose.

Dazed, bloodied and lying supine on the court, Tony was momentarily forgotten as his angry teammates pushed and shoved their opposite numbers in protest of the flagrant foul and called for Stewart's immediate expulsion. The ref moved quickly to prevent any flare-ups but bowed to intimidation from the extremely large Brentwood Bullets team and ruled a personal foul for charging. Tony was assisted to the bleachers where he watched the remaining few minutes of the second period while attending to his bleeding nose. The score remained 45-19 when the half-time break came moments later.

Holding a bloodied towel to his face and walking on legs that felt like wet noodles, Tony joined his teammates on the sideline.

"Are you okay, man?" Roberts asked. "Maybe you should sit out the rest of the game?"

"I'm fine," Tony lied. "Besides, I just figured out how we're gonna win this game."

"We're down 26 points and our point guard," Botha replied sceptically. "You sure you didn't fall on your head?"

"Positive," Tony said. "They put on 17 points in that quarter but we put on 12 and the momentum was swinging our way. They're tiring and their defence is getting sloppy."

"What do you want to do?" asked Callaghan.

"We run 'em off their feet and freeze 'em out," he replied with a cocky grin before outlining his game plan to the other team members. "I watched them in those last few minutes – they're starting to walk, they're sucking in the big ones and they're not double-teaming in defence like they were. That opens up more opportunities for us in offence. They may be bigger but we're faster and we've got more gas left in the tank. We play a keepaway game for the first half of the third period. Starve them of possession and make them run their asses off. No lofted passes, keep them sharp and low. They're hammering us in rebounds at both ends so no low percentage shots. You take a shot, it better stick 'cause you're not gonna get a second chance. They're gonna try to muscle us off the court so you better be prepared for things to get rough out there. Any questions?"

"Yeah," Benton said. "Are you up to this? That was quite a hit."

"He's right," Roberts agreed. "Take a few more minutes at least, we'll hold them off until you're ready to come back on."

Tony reluctantly agreed, making his way back to his seat in the bleachers as the referee signalled for the teams to take the court for the third quarter.

The Marauders played to their game plan, running hard and forcing the pace of the game. As Tony predicted, the Bullets responded to their lack of possession by muscling up and accumulating more fouls than points in the first seven minutes. The score was 51-33 when Tony returned to the court and was immediately harassed by the very loud and very mouthy Ty Stewart.

"Hey, powder puff!" Stewart said, moving his considerable bulk in close to prevent Tony's advancement. "I thought you'd be half way home to your Momma by now."

Not taking a backward step, Tony gave him a wan smile. "We know you can talk like Dennis Rodman, let's see you defend like him."

Feinting to his left, Tony made a fast break to the right, wrong footing the large man and evading another defender before passing to Botha further down court. He pumped a fist into the air as Botha buried a corner three–pointer. While the play lifted their Marauders teammates, the Bullets countered the renewed vigour of their opponents with aggression and hostility. At the end of the third period, the Bullets still led by 58-49 but the margin had dwindled.

With momentum swinging back to the Marauders, the opening minutes of the final period were gruelling and physical. As the Marauders playmaker, the Bullets threw everything they had at Tony in an effort to slow the pace of the game and regain control. An away-from-the-play hip-check sent Tony sprawling to land heavily on the point of his shoulder but not before he had torn through the defence to set-up Roberts for a midrange jumper that wrestled the lead from the Bullets.

The rest of the game was a bruising encounter but, in a hard fought victory, the Marauders led 77-64 at the final buzzer.

Tony and his teammates gathered in a mid-court huddle, backslapping and whooping with delight. When a large hand firmly grasped Tony's shoulder and spun him around none-too-gently, he found himself staring up into the unreadable face of Ty Stewart.

"You played a great game, man! We could use a player like you on our team," the Bullets' captain told him as his face broke into a huge smile. "If only you weren't so damn short!"

Tony shook his head at the Jeckyl and Hyde persona as he watched the large man walk toward the exit. A call from PFC Roberts dragged him from his musings.

"Hey, Michael, we're heading to O'Connell's. We're gonna celebrate with a steak and a few beers. You coming?"

"You buying?" Tony asked.

"Absolutely!" the young Marine grinned back.

"Then I'm coming!" Tony replied as he shouldered his gym bag and followed them from the building.

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The screech of braking tyres echoed in the underground resident's parking area as Gibbs brought the sedan to a rapid halt and leapt from the car. His gut tightened painfully as he realised Tony's car was not in its assigned spot. He checked his watch again – zero three-thirty. 'Where the hell is he and why isn't he answering his damn cell!'

He took the elevator and exited on the sixth level, lengthening his stride as he approached the door to Tony's apartment. His heart skipped a beat when he found the door slightly ajar and the keys still hanging in the lock. Without conscious thought, his Sig Sauer was in his hand and the safety released as he cautiously entered the apartment.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the usually orderly apartment in disarray. A table lamp had been knocked from the sideboard and an end table was upturned with the remnants of cold coffee staining the rug. Moving stealthily, he scanned the rest of the apartment for intruders and moved toward the master bedroom

He thought of his earlier warning to his young partner and chafed inwardly that he had not followed his instincts and provided backup. Taking a calming breath, he silently opened the bedroom door and mouthed a silent curse as he recognised the prone body of his agent.

Gibbs made a preliminary assessment, relieved not to see any blood or other signs of obvious injury. Fully clothed, with his head at an awkward angle and his left arm and leg dangling from the mattress; the younger man lay where he had obviously fallen.

Re-holstering his sidearm, the former Marine leaned forward, extending an arm toward his agent. He took a fast step back as the young man twisted quickly, pressing the muzzle of his own weapon into Gibbs' ribs with a menacing "don't even think about it."

"Stand down, DiNozzo, it's me," Gibbs said, silently applauding his agent's spatial awareness.

"Boss?" Tony asked as he squinted into the darkness and lowered his gun. "What are you doing here? What time is it?"

Overwhelming relief was outwrestled by anger and Gibbs' raised voice reverberated around the apartment and intensified the jackhammer that had taken up residence in Tony's brain.

"What do you think I'm doing here? I'm looking for you, Bonehead! If you answered your damn cell you'd know that!"

"What are you talking about? I had my cell with me all night. No one called," Tony slurred, still half asleep.

"I called you – several times."

Tony groped for his cell in the darkness and shrugged apologetically.

"Must've left it in my gym bag but I would have heard it ring," he offered.

"Well you obviously didn't, DiNozzo, or I wouldn't be standing in your apartment at zero three forty-five checking to see if you're still alive. Rule number three! Never be unreachable!"

"All due respects, Boss," Tony said with a grimace. "Any chance you can ball me out quietly. I gotta a killer headache here."

Stumbling blindly toward the door to retrieve his gym bag, he tripped over something in his path.

"Found it," he said meekly, swinging the bag onto the bed and almost losing his balance.

Gibbs switched on the bedside lamp drawing a groan from Tony as the sudden brightness drove his headache up a few notches.

"Are you hung over?"

"What? Of course not!" Tony protested. "However, it is entirely possible that I'm still drunk."

As the younger man fumbled through the bag in search of the errant cell, Gibbs ran a practised eye over his agent.

The bed hair and dishevelled, slept in clothing, reeked of smoke and alcohol and the bleary green eyes reflected an evening spent drinking to excess. But the stilted movement from aching, stiffened muscles and the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone were cause for additional concern.

Taking hold of the younger man's chin, Gibbs looked at the bruise and asked sharply.

"What happened?"

"It's nothing, Boss. It happened during the fight in the bar but you'll be happy to know that it wasn't Pacci this time. Come to think of it, I didn't even see Pacci!" Tony stated.

"Yeah, about that…"

"I don't know where Pacci gets these guys, they were huge! The one I jumped when he pulled that fake knife on Botha…if I didn't know any better, I'd have thought it was the real deal."

"Tony…"

"Naturally as a highly trained federal agent, skilled in hand to hand combat, I had to pull my punches…I mean, I didn't wanna anyone to get hurt, right?"

"DiNozzo…"

"They won't be able to show their faces at O'Connell's for awhile though. They really busted up the place! Aha!" Tony exclaimed, holding the cell triumphantly. His smile faded as he noticed it was switched off. "Sorry, Gibbs, it must've happened when I threw it in my bag. What were you calling for?"

"Pacci called. Said you guys didn't show up at the bar."

Tony frowned. "But…we did."

"There was a mix-up. Turns out, he and his guys went to O'Donnell's on 5th instead of O'Connell's on 6th."

Tony's frown morphed into a look of sickening realisation.

"So the guys we fought were…"

"Not Pacci's guys."

"And the fight was…"

"Not staged."

"And the knife was…"

"The real deal…" Gibbs answered, trying but failing to hold back a grin at the younger man's horrified expression.

"That's not funny, Gibbs! I could have been killed!"

"Not you, DiNozzo, you're a highly trained federal agent, skilled in hand to hand combat."

"But those guys were big, Boss. Big, big, big, big."

"Come on," Gibbs said, steering the younger man toward the kitchen. "Let's get you sober and you can tell me what happened."

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Thanks for reading – there's lots of drama and action to come.