It's not the end of the world,
but you can see it from there.
Pierre Elliot Trudeau
October 22nd, 2009
Buffy braced herself as DiNozzo backed the van down the drive at a speed that would be scary in a car. When the back corner of the van bounced off of a storage unit door and again off the brick wall separating two units, she swore, clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. Through the pain radiating in her shoulder, she heard Agent Gibbs echo her unspoken sentiments.
"Dammit, DiNozzo, watch where you're going!"
DiNozzo slowed down enough to keep the van in control. When he reached the end of the drive he stopped abruptly, put the van in drive and accelerated toward the open gate.
Buffy opened her eyes and turned her head. McGee had his arm around Agent David; his hand was pressed tightly against her bloody neck. With his free hand, he was pulling open the drawers in the back of the van and slamming them shut again.
"Dammit!"
"Agent McGee, I can take her; makes more sense since I don't know where anything is."
The look in McGee's eyes was suspicious for a moment but he consented. "Thanks"
It was difficult in the tight quarters but they managed to rearrange themselves so that Buffy was sitting where McGee had been. She put her functioning arm around Ziva and pressed her hand against the wound on her neck. McGee continued his search and found the first aid supplies. Buffy closed her eyes. She wondered why . . . she could hear . . . sirens . . .
"You think you can just do that to me? You think I'd let you get away with that? Think again!"
There's a hand in her chest squeezing her heart.
There's a blue sky
and darkness . . .
blue sky
and darkness . . .
as her eyelids flutter like butterfly wings.
It's ok, really, dying – again.
It's not suicide, so those rules . . . She remembers something about rules . . . dying rules. She didn't break them. She can go back to feel the utter contentment, the languid bliss. Maybe. 'Cause there's other rules too and she's not sure how her behaviour of the last 202 days figures on the whole balance of the soul
but
It's ok, really, dying – again.
'Cause she wrote a will. Not a legal one but she's hoping that her sister and friends comply with her wishes anyway. In the will she included one very, very, important clause:
As soon as they're done dissecting me, I want to be cremated and I want my ashes sprinkled on the ocean at sunrise.
Who knows, maybe she'll come back as a fish; fish have pretty boring lives. Or maybe a-
"Miss Summers?"
Huh, god sounds young; polite too. She's really gonna have to have a talk about the 'Miss Summers' thing though.
"Uh, Miss Summers?"
Buffy's eyes opened. For a moment, her body froze; she didn't blink, she didn't breathe. Her senses roared.
DiNozzo's heartbeat – off kilter again. Gibbs' breaths – short but controlled. The brief sticky smack of McGee's lips, parting to speak. The rich, rich, sweet and salty, coppery aroma of Ziva's blood; her pulse, faint but steady beneath skin now soft.
The bitter tang of her own tainted blood.
Quickly and methodically, she turned the dials down on her senses until the input was acceptable.
She wasn't surprised that she'd lost control: pain, exhaustion and blood loss had weakened her and for a moment, she'd allowed herself to drift – she couldn't afford to drift. She blinked a few times and acknowledged McGee with a weak but honest smile.
"Sorry. What did you need?"
McGee handed her a roll of surgical tape. With a little effort, she tore off a few long strips and hung them from her fingers. McGee pressed a thick rectangle of gauze to Ziva's wound and held it tight while Buffy applied the tape to hold it in place. Ziva's breathing was slow and shallow but it was, at least, steady. McGee tried to keep his focus on her breaths, as if, by acknowledging her continued survival, she would continue to survive. It was difficult though; the drone of the van and the conversation in the front were distracting.
"Where am I going?" Tony sounded dazed. McGee was surprised that he was driving and not Gibbs, and then he remembered – Gibbs' wrist was broken.
Buffy stirred beside Ziva. She hissed as she turned to crawl up to the front of the van. "Washington Hospital Center."
Gibbs turned and looked down at her. "Why there?"
"It's the only place I can be treated. There are doctors there who know what's what. They can treat Ziva better there too. She'll need blood tests and drugs to make sure she doesn't catch something."
Gibbs looked like he might debate the choice; he didn't. "DiNozzo?"
"Right. I think I remember how to get there."
"The ER's in the northwest. You got a siren on this thing?" Buffy's eyelids fluttered. She took a long breath and forced herself to stay focused.
Tony glanced quickly at Buffy; he looked concerned. "How is she?"
"She'll be fine. I might pass out in a minute though. If I do – don't touch me. I don't react well to people touching me when I'm unconscious and in pain."
McGee's frown was matched by Gibbs'.
"What's the problem," Gibbs asked.
"Took a bullet in the shoulder. I'm kinda bleeding, a little." Buffy shuffled back to her place beside Ziva and leaned back.
McGee gathered some more gauze and crouched on the other side of Ziva, facing Buffy. "Can you get your jacket off?"
Buffy wiggled and hissed – and swore a few times – but, after freeing her right arm, she managed to remove her left arm from her jacket. McGee handed her a thick layer of gauze; she took it and pressed it against her wound. Most of the blood she'd lost had soaked into her shirt and the lining of her jacket. Blood still flowed from the wound but the volume had decreased as her healing accelerated the coagulation.
"Thanks, Agent McGee."
McGee nodded and sat down again.
Buffy pulled her jacket out from behind her with her free hand and patted the pockets. "Shit." At some point during the fight, she had lost her phone. She checked the inside pockets, though she was pretty sure they would be empty as well; except for her wallet, they were. "And again I say 'shit'."
McGee leaned forward and turned to face her. "What's the problem?"
"Lost my phone and I really need to make two phone calls before we get to the hospital."
McGee fished in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. He opened it, turned it on and passed it to her. Buffy smiled weakly.
"You're officially my favourite NCIS agent. Thank you, Agent McGee."
The first number she called was local.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Paul. I need a few things."
"What happened?"
"Remember my suspicion that NCIS was walking into a trap? More like an execution. I caught up to them before the four vamps from the unit they went to look at could make them snackables but three of the agents were hurt. We got out before the other vamps could join in the merry making."
"How many more?"
"15 or 20? Didn't have time to ask for a head count. We're on our way to the Washington Hospital Center – you called, right?"
"Yes. Dr. Preston is waiting. How are you?"
"Peachy . . . Ok, more like a peach that's been rolled down the stairs in the Empire State Building but I'll be fine. I need Commander Paris and his team to go to the Storage unit and keep their eyes out for any activity. I'm thinking they bailed quick but I don't want to take a chance that they decided to stop for takeout first. And let them know that these vamps are different; they're a lot faster and stronger than younger vamps usually are – more organized to. I don't want them taking chances – I'll play the 'this is an order' card if I have to."
"I'll call him. What else?"
"Tomorrow, if Commander Paris says it's ok, I want Courtney's team – sorry, Agent Krieger's team – to do the evidence thingy. Ask Agent Krieger to send whatever info they find to, um, Abby Sciuto at NCIS; and if she asks for anything, make sure she gets it."
"Done. How are you really, Buffy?"
"Got shot in the shoulder. It's not serious just painful."
"Anyone else be in over night?"
"Two definitely, maybe three."
"I'll have guards posted on your floor. Do you think this is the 'beginning' you were waiting for?"
"Really don't want to think about that right now – but, yeah, I do."
"I'll let you go. Don't worry about the CGR, I'll deal with them in the morning. Get better, Buffy."
"Thanks, Paul. Ciao."
Buffy ended the call and entered another, longer number. The call was answered on the second ring.
"Good Evening, Guardians International, Rebekah speaking – how can I help you?"
"Hi, Rebekah. I need a connection."
"Name please?"
"Buffy Anne Summers."
"Status?"
"Ronin." She really needed to talk to the Guardians about allowing Mr. Wells the authority to assign security clearances.
"Password please."
Buffy typed a 12 digit number into the phone; she wasn't sure how it worked but the number was communicated and verified at the other end.
"Hi, Ma'am. I'll put you through."
"Thanks, Rebekah."
Buffy heard a click followed by another and then a familiar voice.
"Hello, Buffy."
Despite the pain and fatigue, Buffy smiled. "Hi, Shannon. 'Kinda hoping you'd be on duty tonight. I have to make this quick, we should be getting to the hospital soon. I lost my phone and I need to make sure it's toast; it's possible that a vamp found it and . . . you know – don't want him looking up my favourite pizza place and snacking on the owner."
"Are you ok?" Shannon sounded sincerely concerned.
"I'll be fine - seriously. So no calling everyone and telling them, 'k?"
"They worry about you, you know . . . We worry about you, I mean."
"It's all good – mostly. Looks like we're here. Can you send me a new phone? I'll try extra hard not to lose or break this one."
"I'm just filling out the rec'."
"Thanks, Shannon. Gotta go."
"Take care, Ma'am. And call me when you get out."
Buffy ended the call, turned off the phone and closed it. "Thanks, Agent McGee. Pretty sure I've got the record for the most company phones lost or totalled." She held the phone out to him; he nodded once and took it from her.
Gibbs turned in his seat to face the back and announced, "We're here."
Washington Hospital Center
Buffy and McGee entered the hospital and went to the admissions counter. The woman behind the counter was staring at her monitor and typing furiously. Behind her, a man and two women spoke together in the quiet, grave voices that usually indicated that someone had died or would soon be dead.
Buffy slumped against the counter. "Hi, could we-"
Without looking up, the nurse interrupted and said, "Just one sec'."
Buffy stared at the nurse and rapped her knuckles against the counter top. "I don't think I have 'a sec', unless you want me to bleed to death on your shiny floor."
The nurse's head snapped up. She saw Buffy and the bloody gauze she still held to her wound and stood quickly. "Gee, I'm so sorry. You shouldn't be on your feet; let me get-"
"Stop. I'm good – for now – but there's an NCIS agent outside who needs help, like, immediately."
The nurse nodded and hurried over to the doctor and nurses behind her; while she was getting help, Buffy turned to McGee.
"Might not see you for a while, so, could you do me a favour?"
McGee only caught the 'do me a favour'; maybe it was a cliché but he really did feel that his world had tipped off its axis. "What's the favour?"
"Keep your team at their desks. Tonight-"
"We were set up; I heard you talking on the phone. You know that if I try to tell Gibbs to sit at his desk he'll shoot me, right?"
Buffy frowned. "Yeah, I kinda get that vibe too. Guess I'll just have to-" She was interrupted by the appearance of the doctor and two nurses who had been talking in the hall behind the counter as they rolled a gurney into the Admissions room.
McGee glanced at Buffy and hesitated a moment before saying, "I should go."
Buffy smiled. "Go. And don't worry – the doctors here are really good."
McGee nodded and joined the doctor. "She's out here."
Buffy turned back to the desk and took her wallet out of her pocket. The nurse she had spoken to earlier had returned; she was hanging up the phone as Buffy opened her wallet. "Hi, again. There should be a doctor here waiting for me." She held up her D.O.D. ID.
The nurse glanced at the ID and started around the counter. "Yep, there is – just got the call. Dr. Preston asked me to wheel you up with your NCIS friends." She unfolded a wheelchair and wheeled it over to Buffy.
Buffy hesitated a moment, trying to understand how Dr. Preston would have known about the agents. Her ability to reason was fuzzy but she managed to make the connection to the call she'd placed to Paul; once again, he had anticipated what she had failed include in her conversations with him. She pushed herself back from the counter with her right arm; her muscles were trembling.
The nurse slid her arm around Buffy's back. "Now, put your arm over my shoulder . . . that's good. Here we go."
Buffy's butt hit the chair with a muffled thump. She dragged her feet up and rested her heels on the foot plates. "Wake me when we get there."
October 24th, 2009, Washington Hospital Center, Room 301
God, she hated hospitals. and every time she had the unfortunate opportunity to patronise one, as a patient or a visitor, she thought the same thing,
'God, I hate hospitals!'
Unfortunately, they were a necessary side effect of her life:
Buffy gets near dead, Buffy goes to the hospital.
She hated the atmosphere (too much poignancy beneath the false calm); the smells (blood, urine, sweat and fear); the sounds (beeps and blips and whispered condolences) and the food – oh, how she hated the food. It was a universal truth – ok, maybe not one of the BIG ones – that 'hospital' and 'food' were un-mixy. It was bad enough trying to eat while the other patients groaned and hacked and farted, but did what she was trying to eat have to be as appetizing as ground newspaper?
She looked at the open magazine lying on her lap; Emma Watson stared back from a 'People Tree' ad'.
"Good for her," Buffy muttered. "Bet those clothes taste better than the hospital food . . . 'specially with her in them." She closed the magazine abruptly. "God, when did I become such a perv'."
She was waiting for Dr. Preston to arrive so she could lose the shackles of the needles in her arm and get the hell out of bed – and right to a shower. The only reason she was in the damned hospital at all was because she hadn't been able to stay conscious long enough to get up and order a cab.
'Wait. Is that . . . possibly . . . yes.'
"Come in," she bellowed. She pushed herself up on the bed and straightened her blanket.
The door to her room opened and Dr. Preston stepped in followed by another woman.
Dr. Preston smiled. "Hello, Miss Summers. This is Dr. Watts. She's the latest addition to our staff."
Buffy grinned. "Lucky you. And it's Buffy, by the way. I figure Dr. Preston'll figure that out before she retires."
"I'm sorry. I've been around Administrators all morning."
"S'ok," Buffy responded, though her eyes were on Dr. Watts; the doctor seemed puzzled by something. "Go ahead and ask – I know you want to."
Dr. Watts head jerked to the right and her eyes met Buffy's. "Pardon?"
"You looked kinda confused so, I thought, maybe, you had a question?"
"I . . ." Dr. Watts smiled wryly. "Yes, I did. How did you know we were coming?"
"Heard you."
"How?"
"Be really cool if I could wiggle my ears right now, but you get the idea." Buffy tilted her head and looked curiously at Dr. Preston. "If Dr. Watts is going to be working on me – ever – you should tell her about my 'specialness'; you know: don't expose me to direct sunlight; don't feed me after midnight –especially hospital food; make sure I have coffee every few hours . . ."
Dr. Watts' confusion was directed at Dr. Preston; she rolled her eyes and stepped up to the side of Buffy's bed. "Buffy thinks she's funny. I'll tell you about her peculiarities later." She took a pair of surgical gloves from the box on the bedside table, pulled them on and lifted Buffy's arm. "Hold still for a moment."
While Dr. Preston worked on removing the needles from her arm, Buffy turned her attention back to Dr. Watts: she was young; unpretentiously pretty; possessed a quiet confidence beneath her nervousness and a brightness in her eyes that bespoke of intelligence, possibly genius: Buffy wondered how the hell she'd ended up here. "Dr. Watts, if you wanna ask something else, it's cool."
Dr. Watts face became animated. "It's Audrey, by the way, and, yes, I do have a few questions. I reviewed your medical history; it's remarkable."
Buffy smiled facetiously. "Glad my bad luck was an entertaining read."
Audrey's animated state fizzled; when she continued, she was more subdued. "I'm sorry, that was rather macabre of me, wasn't it."
Buffy laughed. "S'ok, 'macabre' is my other middle name."
Audrey grinned. "I'll try to restrain myself. There were two cases that I was interested in. The first was . . . Sunnydale?" Buffy nodded. "Multiple breaks, head trauma, internal bleeding . . ."
"Yeah, fell from a scaffold and landed on a pile of broken cement."
"I'm surprised you didn't die."
Buffy answered prudently. "Yep, me too. Spent four months in the hospital recovering though."
There were some revelations that Buffy and the Guardians considered off limits; the biggest, as far as Buffy was concerned, was her death and resurrection. She didn't think that world was ready to hear that a woman of suspicious nature had been brought back from the dead by a witch – she could only imagine how the world's religious factions would react. So she lied.
Judging by the sympathetic expression on her face, Audrey seemed to accept the modified story. "Yes, I read that in the report; that must have been terrible. You did recover very quickly after you had awoken from your coma – extraordinarily fast, really."
Buffy answered blandly. "Just part of the package."
Audrey's head tilted a little to the side. "Is it? I have more reading to do, it seems. The other case that interested me was the attack in New York last year?"
"Yeah, that was unpleasant. Had my stomach sliced open and had to hold my insides, um, inside?" Audrey paled. "Not one of my better years.."
Dr. Preston lowered Buffy's arm, gathered the used gauze, needles and cotton balls and dropped them in a clear bag. She sealed the bag and wrote on the blank label in big black letters – 'INCINERATE'. She smiled briefly at Buffy before rejoining her colleague at the end of the bed. "I'll get your paperwork in order; as soon as you sign you can go home. I do recommend relaxing for a few days, at least until your arm is functioning properly."
"I will. All I really want is a shower, real food and a drink; not planning on going anywhere."
Dr. Preston looked relieved. "Good. Remember, though, you can't drink alcohol if you take your pain meds. And call me later, please, let me know how you are?"
Buffy smiled warmly; sometimes she missed being mothered. "I will."
Dr. Preston looked at Dr. Watts who had been listening to the exchange curiously. "Well, let's continue to the labs. I'll fill you in on procedures and security protocols while we're there."
Dr. Watts nodded and waved at Buffy. "It was nice to meet you and without sounding terrible, I hope we can talk again."
"Nice to meet you too, Audrey and if you ever want to grab a coffee . . . Bye, Wendy – and thanks."
Dr. Preston nodded once and touched Dr. Watts shoulder, indicating that they were leaving. "I'll talk to you tonight, Buffy."
A few seconds after her door closed it opened again, enough for Dr. Preston to pop her head in.
"You have a visitor; an NCIS agent – Timothy McGee?"
Buffy blinked. She hadn't expected to see anyone from NCIS, not yet; she figured they'd be recovering.
"Ok. Send him in." Wendy nodded and started closing the door. "Wait! How's my hair?" Wendy's eyebrows rose. "Never mind."
Quickly, she combed her fingers through her hair and wiped her mouth with a kleenex in case she had any crumbs of her ground newspaper lunch on her lips. She answered the tentative knock on her door with a less tentative,
"Come in, Agent McGee!"
McGee entered and closed the door behind him. He was dressed casually: jeans and long sleeved shirt (Hugo Boss); black leather shoes (Rockport, maybe?); and a charcoal gray wool coat (Burberry – and exactly how much did NCIS agents make, anyway?). McGee's cheeks were pink; his eyes bright; hair tousled. He held a Starbucks bag carefully in one hand; the fingers of the right were wrapped around a very big coffee. He paused by the door for a moment before approaching her.
"Hi. How are you?"
Buffy bit back her sarcastic response. She'd been practicing since she'd arrived in Washington; not that she always remembered, especially during her meetings with the CGR. "Peachy. Going home in a few hours."
"Oh. I, uh," McGee held out the bag. "I got you a coffee. I don't know what you take so I asked for cream and sugar; and there's a chocolate/chocolate chunk muffin in there as well. I figured most women like chocolate . . . though, the last time I said something like that I got in trouble."
Buffy smiled wide and accepted the offered bag. "You're a god. Thank you."
"You're welcome. I remember what the food's like. I spent a few months in the hospital when I was 16."
Buffy pulled the coffee out of the bag and put it on the table beside her. "What happened . . . sorry, none of my business."
"It's ok. I got hit by a bus." Buffy's eyes widened. "I was in a car . . ." McGee shrugged.
Buffy nodded and finished emptying the bag. "Yeah. I spent a few weeks in the Beth Israeli Medical Center in New York." Buffy pulled her shirt up to the bottom of her sternum. McGee stared at the long scar that ran from her right hip to the 7th rib on her left side. "They had to humpty dumpty me."
McGee's eyes remained riveted on Buffy's stomach even after she'd tugged down the hem of her shirt. "What . . . I probably don't want to know, do I?"
Buffy's smile was almost cruel. "Doesn't matter if you want to know anymore, you already do. You saw the video of the hangar in Manassas?" McGee nodded. "The thing that did this," she tapped her stomach, "was about three times the size of the thing on the video – the big one. Sometimes, doesn't matter how good you are, eventually you're gonna meet something that's stronger, or faster, or meaner – in this case, it was all three."
McGee pulled his eyes away from Buffy's stomach and took a sip of his coffee; funny how coffee could soothe the frazzled nerves – or was that 'ironic'? He shifted his stance and remembered why he'd come – one of the reasons. He wasn't sure what to say. He'd contemplated different approaches; had chosen his words carefully; but talking to himself in the car on the way to the hospital and actually uttering the speech he'd prepared to the woman lying on the bed, watching him with eyes that weren't quite human were decidedly different circumstances.
Buffy's expression softened. "I know why you're here, Agent McGee." She put her coffee down and picked up a small sealed jar from the table. She held the jar out and shook it; something within rattled against the glass. "I think this is yours."
McGee leaned closer, though he was pretty sure that he knew what was in the jar: the mangled 9 mm slug from his Sig. He couldn't look away. he felt cold; nauseous. This was the second time he'd been responsible for shooting an ally. Yes, he hadn't killed Miss Summers but that really wasn't the issue – he could have. Lieutenant John Benedict still haunted him, didn't matter if his bullet had been the fatal one or not.
"Agent McGee," Buffy's voice was soft, "It wasn't your fault, it was mine. I should know better than to jump blindly into a fight. It's just, sometimes, when I'm being all 'Action Girl' I don't think about things like friendly fire. Bet you didn't even know I was there until I dusted the vamp."
McGee had considered the sequence of events after the first 'vamp' had attacked Ziva and, honestly, he couldn't remember every detail, or even one specific detail, of the attack. It had been like watching a Jet Li movie through a fish tank; the changing positions of enemy and ally had blurred in his memories. He had watched the video of the fight in the hangar repeatedly at increasingly slower frame rates trying to understand how Summers had managed to predict her opponent's actions and act accordingly to either evade attacks directed at her or present her own offensive. He still had no idea, not even enough of a theory to speculate, how she had managed to successfully defeat eight men, two armed with automatic weapons, who had manifested the same unearthly qualities as the men and woman who attacked the team last Thursday. So, it was possible that his brain had only acknowledged Buffy's presence after it was too late.
Buffy waited to see if McGee would recognize that her injury had simply been an unfortunate and blameless accident. He didn't deserve to carry the guilt. "Not your fault," Buffy repeated. "You did the right thing. Didn't matter that bullets were useless; you guys acted quickly and managed to keep four psychopaths on steroids busy long enough for me to get there."
McGee wasn't sure that he hadn't, in some way, been at fault but considering the unusual circumstances he could at least agree that the shooting was unintentional and unavoidable.
McGee relaxed a little more. He pointed at the chair in the corner of the room. "Do you mind if I sit?"
Buffy managed to turn her reflexive look of surprise into a grin. "Please . . . You can keep my mind off of pretty English women." McGee raised an eyebrow; Buffy's cheeks flushed. "Never mind . . . So, how's Agent David?"
Monday October 26th, 2009, NCIS
"Hi, Ziva"
"How did you know that it wasn't Gibbs?"
"Gibbs doesn't smell like roses and sandalwood." Abby turned from the monitor she'd been staring at, leaned against the edge of the table and crossed her arms. "Don't know why the Director couldn't postpone this meeting. You guys should be resting."
Ziva rolled her eyes. "I am fine. Have you found anything?"
"If you're talking about the evidence from the storage locker – not so much. There wasn't a computer or files so still no idea who rented those units." Abby turned back to the computer and opened a file. "The toxicology report the FBI ran on the two policemen found palytoxin in their systems. They detected traces of the same toxin in the coffee cups they found in the car." Abby paused, looking perplexed. "It's really strange that someone would use poison, especially palytoxin. I mean, what if one of the officers had drunk . . . drank . . . drinked . . . what if one of the officers had started drinking his coffee first? The other guy would've called in for assistance, right? And why didn't either of them call, or at least try – they were in the car, the radio was on, and they both had cell phones on them."
Ziva frowned thoughtfully. Using poison certainly wasn't the method method of eliminating two targets quickly and without complications – it was inefficient, amateurish. A small calibre bullet from a silenced gun would have been sufficient. And why hadn't the officers attempted, at least, to call?
"Is it possible that someone blocked the signal of the police radio, like they blocked the cell phone reception when we were there?"
"It's possible. Makes about as much sense as everything else."
Ziva nodded. "Was there anything else?"
"Fingerprints – lots and lots of fingerprints. The FBI matched them to seventeen of the missing people on our list." Abby turned to face Ziva again. "And then there's what they didn't find: IV stands; blood bags; or any indication that anyone had been living in the storage units – except the bed frames, they were still there. And no Harry Winkler."
"Still," Ziva asked, surprised.
"Yep. They checked his home, his other businesses; they even checked the resting home his mother's staying at." Abby lowered her eyes and shuffled her feet. "I wanna go – to the storage place. Don't get me wrong, the FBI did a great job – and I'm not just saying that 'cause Agent Krieger's your friend – but I need to see . . . well, everything."
"Have you asked Gibbs yet?"
"No. He's a bit cranky today – more than usual. Which, I guess is perfectly reasonable considering his hand's in a cast. And why is his hand in a cast?"
Ziva closed the distance between them. Softly she said, "Because they were much faster and stronger than we were. Our bullets hit them, Abby; here," she touched Abby's forehead with the tips of her middle and index fingers, "And here." Her fingers dropped to hover an inch above Abby's heart. "Repeatedly. But our bullets might as well have been rubber. That is why Gibbs' wrist is broken, why Tony's face is a mess and why I have these." Ziva pulled down the thick collar of her sweater revealing the white strip of gauze covering her wounds.
"Did it hurt," Abby asked.
"Yes, it did. It does not so much now."
"This is insane. Things like this don't happen . . . The thing is, no matter how hard I try to find another explanation, I keep coming up with big blanks, like someone formatted my brain."
"This is what it is, Abby." Ziva glanced at her watch. "And it is time for us to be going."
Abby pushed away from the table and removed her lab coat. "I can't believe the Director asked her here."
"Aren't you even a little curious," Ziva asked.
Abby appeared affronted by the suggestion. "No. Why would I be curious about a crazy woman?"
Ziva smirked; there was a gleam in her eyes. "You lie. I can see it in your eyes, Abby."
Abby pouted. "Fine. A little curious. Please tell me everyone there is going to be armed?" Ziva lifted the hem of her sweater revealing her holstered Sig. "Ok. I feel better now."
As they walked to the door of the lab, Ziva wondered if Abby had any idea of just how fast Summers could move.
If Buffy's smile was tired, it was at least genuine as she followed her military escort to the office of the Director of NCIS.
She'd left the hospital at around six the previous evening. Paul had sent a car for her, which was thoughtful considering her shirt had been destroyed and all she had to wear was the pale blue and very thin shirt the hospital had given her. Nope, she wasn't a fashion snob anymore . . . Ok, maybe, a little, but hospital blue – so not her colour.
Following a long shower, she'd made the obligatory phone calls: Paul, Daniel, Shannon: and glanced at her e-mail – just in case. Not that she'd had any plans on working. Her plans had included Chamomile tea, take-out and 3 movies. She'd tried to sleep but every time her eyes had closed she'd lurched up and awake in a panic. The nightmares were always worse after near death experiences – hers or anyone else's – and since she couldn't tame them, she often skipped sleep entirely. Once she reached the point of exhaustion, she let herself descend into a black emptiness so deep even the nightmares fear to tread there.
Today, she drank coffee – lots and lots of coffee.
Corporal McKkewon stopped in front of a door with a small metal plate on it that indicated that they had arrived at the Director's office. Buffy took a steadying breath and released it slowly.
'I should be used to this by now.'
The Corporal opened the door and gestured for her to enter.
"Thanks." She stepped into the room and waited for the Corporal to follow. She noticed a woman who was seated behind a desk and smiled tentatively; the woman smiled back, rolled her chair back from the desk and stood.
"Miss Summers?"
Buffy nodded. "That's me."
"I'm Mrs. Gilmore, Director Vance's assistant. I'll take you to the Director; he's just down the hall." Mrs. Gilmore joined Buffy and the Corporal by the door. "Thank you, Corporal, I can take her from here." The Corporal nodded and left. "Do you need some help with that, Miss Summers?" She pointed at the boxes and coffees Buffy carried.
"Nope, I got it. Thanks though."
Mrs. Gilmore smiled briefly and led Buffy back out into the hall and to another door; she knocked on it once, opened it partway and ducked her head into the room beyond.
"Sorry for interrupting, Director, but Miss Summers is here."
"Send her in, Mrs. Gilmore."
Mrs. Gilmore smiled again and ushered Buffy inside. Buffy glanced quickly around the room - lots of wood and colour, which she hadn't expected – and then quickly glanced over the faces of the people seated at the long table that dominated the center of the room. Some she recognized and of those she was unfamiliar with, it wasn't difficult to assign names.
The man seated at the head of the table: dark skin, dark eyes, smudge of a moustache and about as much hair; hard demeanour, intuitive stare: this man could only be Director Vance. She'd heard his name mentioned by the other agents, not always followed by polite words, but this was the first face to face.
Agent Gibbs and Director Thorpe sat on either side of the Director. 3 ½ years ago, Daniel Thorpe had been assigned to a special task force that had investigated the hierarchy of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency after allegations were made that classified technology had been misappropriated. He had uncovered the truth and with it so much more. The technology hadn't been sold to foreign buyers, weapons dealers or terrorists; it had been given to a group known as Twilight. Thorpe's persistence had led him to the real truth and, after a gruelling eight months that he and five other agents had spent wading through a maze of intel', interviews and political deflections, they had compiled enough evidence to indict the Director and four others with treason – charges that would be followed by many more in the ensuing years. As a consideration for his excellent performance, Daniel Thorpe had been offered the position of Director of DARPA. He had accepted. When the Guardians, by way of a proxy – Buffy Summers – had proposed an affiliation with the United States Government, Daniel had asked to play the role of co-ordinator/liaison; he'd already had a taste of the Underworld as the Guardians called it – sometimes the taste was bitter, but more often it was tantalising.
Buffy smiled and waved at Daniel before continuing to the last of the NCIS team she'd yet to meet, though she had certainly heard her name mentioned – Abby Sciuto; from the basic information that Paul had compiled on each of the members of the team, Buffy had learned that Miss Sciuto was a renowned Forensic Specialist. Paul had simpled it up for her,
"Have you seen CSI? Miss Sciuto's like all the people in the lab stuck in the body of one very smart woman."
Buffy had no illusions of Miss Sciuto's abilities; she wasn't quite sure she was going to live to see them manifest though – Miss Sciuto seemed to be dissecting her with her eyes, her stare as sharp as the Scythe's edge.
Before Buffy could move towards the empty chair beside Daniel, the older men at the table – Director Vance, Agent Gibbs, Dr. Mallard and Daniel – rose from their chairs followed, after only a slight hesitation, by the others – all but Miss Sciuto whose eyes darted from person to person as if wondering why Buffy deserved such courtesies. And every time theses courtesies were extended to her, Buffy wondered the same damn thing.
Director Vance spoke; his voice was deep and achromatic but there was a composure to his words that was welcoming. "Miss Summers – glad you could join us."
Buffy smiled winsomely. "Sorry I'm late. The meeting with the CGR . . . um, the Committee for Guardian Relations lasted longer than I thought. Last time I saw them, the Secretary of the Navy and General Bradshaw were arguing about which was better: SOCOM or AA3; the Director of the CIA and the Director of Homeland Security were trying to slip bugs in each other's pockets; the NSA guy was hacking all the computers in the room; the poor FBI guy was sitting in his little corner of the sandbox chasing the bigger cats away and the Secretary of Defense and the Attorney General were making dunce caps out of today's newspapers."
Stares – silent, stunned, stares.
Buffy walked to her chair, set the pastries and coffees on the table and took her seat. The others sat as well. "I don't get it. All these people work for the same government, right?" She toed off her shoes and pulled her legs up beside her. "So why do they always have to get so grumpy with each other about sharing the information? It's just . . . dumb." More stares and a few subtle smiles. "Sorry, they make me grouchy sometimes." She looked at Daniel and smiled.
"Hey, Daniel; how's things?"
Daniel removed his glasses, folded the arms and put them in their case. "You did behave, Buffy? No name calling this time?"
Buffy picked up her double espresso and removed the plastic lid. "Mmm . . . espresso . . . And no, no name calling." She finished the espresso in one gulp and put the empty cup on the table. "Much better." She lifted up the top box of pastries and opened it. "Sooo, whatchya talk about?"
Daniel glowered at her for a moment, like Giles used to long ago. Daniels look of profused annoyance wasn't sincere though.
"The origins of the Slayers; a very brief exposition of your time in Sunnydale and the event that caused the town to collapse." He paused for a moment to accept the cinnamon bun – heavy with caramel – that Buffy handed him on a white napkin. "You realise that this in no way excuses you from being an hour and a half late; and attempting to bribe me isn't helping your tenuous position in my good books."
Buffy smiled and batted her eyelashes. "But you tell the stories so well. I always go off on tangents, big safari like tangents when I tell them. And as far as I recall – in order to bribe someone, you gotta actually say something and no words passed these lips. I have witnesses." She took a strawberry danish from the box and set it on a napkin, in front of her. She pushed the box towards McGee, opened the second box and nudged it toward Director Vance. "You should have one, they're really good." Her focus returned to Daniel. "So, what else?"
Daniel put his cinnamon bun down on and wiped his fingers with a napkin. "Well, I mentioned your ingenuity and Miss Rosenberg's excellence at the end of the Sunnydale conflict; briefed them on the most common examples of the enemies you've faced – though I'm sure, considering recent events, they would appreciate full disclosure; and I gave them an overview of Twilight."
Even now, almost 5 ½ years later, Buffy's expression became desolate when she heard that name. It was a catalyst to great pain . . . too much pain. "So they know I'm not big with the trust when it comes to the military and the government – especially this one?"
Daniel smiled, like a father might. "I imagine that they get that now; but, and I know I've told you this before, we're not all like that. You know how, and why, I got my position and you know that there were other critical changes set in motion by the previous Secretary of Defense and his successor when Twilight was exposed."
Buffy nodded and picked up her coffee. She noticed the looks – some casual, some not – from the others seated at the table and eased the bitterness back into the tomb of her memories. "I know. I've still got these wounds, though; still haven't pulled the stitches from some of them. But I'm trying; wouldn't be here otherwise." She flipped the tab on the coffee lid and took a sip. "Guessing you told them about the Guardians?"
"Yes. It's ironic, you know, that you were the instigator of the organisation and one of the authors of its modus operandi. And wasn't it your recommendation that the Slayers should reach out to the nations of the world and offer an alliance – peace and autonomy in exchange for protection from the genetic anomalies that threaten the world? An objective the Guardians have pursued with great success."
Buffy grinned and shook her head. "See, that's why I let you do all the talking – you're a natural."
Daniel picked up his cinnamon bun and leaned back in his chair; he looked a tad smug. "For a girl who talks so much, you shouldn't have any difficulties with the rest of the conversation."
Buffy glanced at him dourly. "Gee, thanks." She looked around the table, ending the circuit at Director Vance. "So, what now? I mean, I don't expect that you're true believers or anything, but after the video Agent David brought you and the attacks at the storage place the other night, I kinda hoped you might be working on it."
"What I believe isn't really relevant," Vance answered: same steady voice; same penetrating stare. But his eyes betrayed his thoughts; Buffy could see his scepticism. "I'm more concerned with the men and women who have gone missing; at least I thought they were missing until Miss Sciuto identified one of the men on the video as Seamen David Mullins, last seen in San Diego and now," he nodded towards Miss Sciuto, "I'm told that the FBI identified another 17 from the prints they collected at the storage facility.
"The Secretary of the Navy and Director Thorpe have both assured me of your qualifications and your integrity. I like a little more reassurance before I start trusting someone. So, Miss Summers, you wanna help me out here?"
Buffy put down her coffee; she wondered if Director Vance ever yelled. She knew a few men like that, men who only seemed to lose it when hell came a knockin' and they needed to be heard over the voices of the damned.
"Sure. What do you wanna know?"
The Director's eyebrows rose negligently above his dark eyes. "Why don't we start with why you were following my agents?"
"Protection. When all those people started to disappear, I kind of figured that something not normal was going on. After I talked to a few people and confirmed what I pretty much already knew, I took a look at the profiles of the abductees and – funny thing – I found that more than half had a connection to the Navy. Sooo . . . I asked Daniel who would be investigating and there you were –most of you anyway."
"How long," Gibbs asked. "And how did you know where to find us?"
"Almost four months. And Paul, my 'Handler'," Buffy grinned, "called me when you guys got a call. Don't know how he knew where you were going." She tapped her knee with her middle finger and looked at Daniel. "How did you know?"
"We had a trace on your switchboard. We used speech recognition software to monitor incoming and outgoing calls for instances of your names and when they came up we contacted the source of the call to verify the potential risk to your team. And then we called Buffy."
"Who authorised this," Director Vance demanded.
Daniel smiled apologetically. "The Secretary of the Navy. I can assure you that we only focused on the pertinent calls and nothing was recorded."
Seeing the annoyance and mistrust in a few expressions, Buffy added, "It's not like it was a perfect system; you guys are hard to keep track of sometimes. I think I broke a few speed records trying to catch up – like Thursday night and that was way too close. Stupid bike. Maybe I'll get a Ducati or a BMW – they have some nice bikes."
She glanced around the room and felt a twinge of anxiety in her gut. This wasn't going well; hadn't been since David and DiNozzo followed her to the hangar. She sighed. She couldn't blame them for being pissed. She'd been pissed when she'd spotted the two agents following her during her first week on the job in Washington. She'd finally lost her temper when the agents had followed her to a territorial pissing match between two of Washington's demon clans. The agents had been lucky; the demons had focused on Buffy, who'd had been busy setting a few deadly examples of what would happen – though on a much larger scale – if they continued their disputes in public, that they'd overlooked the two men in the car, who, admittedly, were trying to be as discreet as possible. After the demons had dispersed, Buffy had raced around a few shipping containers and approached the car from the passenger side. She may have acted a little over the top ripping off the car door and scaring the two agents to death but her adrenaline had been been pumping from the fight and her anger had pushed the limits of her self control. She'd reported the incident to Daniel who had passed it along to the CGR and she'd been tail free since.
Tony was refreshing his memory of the cases they'd investigated in the past month. There hadn't been many but with the ongoing investigation into the missing Navy personnel, they'd all been running on little sleep. There were two cases that stood out though.
Gibbs remembered those cases as well. His eyes met Buffy's.
Buffy felt the stare and turned her head; Agent Gibbs was searching her eyes, seeking out the breaks in her defences with the finesse of a fencer, which surprised Buffy – she expected a more troll hammer-ish approach.
"Had a case a few weeks back; a Private Simms, found dead in a dumpster." Buffy remembered. "We caught a break on that one. Footage from a video camera caught two men – Vincent Willis and Mark Stoker – following Simms." Gibbs leaned forward and opened the manila folder in front of him; pulled out an 8"x10"and laid it on the table. His scrutiny was less subtle now. "Funny thing though: when I sent Ziva and McGee to the suspect's apartment, they found Stoker tied up in his bathtub, soaking in a foot of water and a note on a footlocker." He lifted the photo and turned it to show Buffy. "The other guy's hanging out on the roof. P.S. Don't open – box goes boom?"
Buffy looked sheepishly at the photo. "'K, so maybe I could've added a few words, but I was in a hurry."
Gibbs right eyebrow rose. "Ah-huh. Still had time to prop a toaster on the edge of the bathtub, tie a string to it and tie the other end to the piece of metal in Stoker's lip."
Buffy suppressed a giggle. "I didn't want him to go anywhere." Daniel's eyebrows narrowed; she avoided his critical gaze and added, "'Sides, it's not like it was plugged in." She leaned forward and grinned.. "So, did he move?"
McGee turned his head to answer. "No, the toaster was still sitting on the edge of the tub. Took a while before Stoker's would move, though."
"And he stank," Ziva added; her face expressed just how bad.
Buffy played contrite. "Sorry about that. How was the other guy – Willis?"
Gibbs answered and Buffy was pretty sure there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "The man you hog tied and hung from the door handle on the roof? Pretty sure he's walking again."
Buffy nodded. "Good. Did you find his gun?"
"Yeah, we found it. How'd you know?"
"Heard them talking when I got there. Someone called, to warn them."
"And the traps? The shotgun on the door and the footlocker?"
"The trap on the door was easy – I broke the locks and pushed the door open from the side. Damn loud though – I'm surprised someone didn't call the cops."
"Not really the kind of place people want to be recognised for doing their civic duty."
Buffy nodded. "Yeah, I guess I don't blame them."
"How did you know about the footlocker," Ziva asked.
"After I found it, I broke the lock, tied a really long piece of string to the hasp and put the box by Stoker's feet. Figured, if it was trapped, the guy would probably stop me before I opened the lid. Guess he thought that jail was better than going 'BOOM' 'cause he stopped me pretty fast. Criminals these days, no dedication."
Director Vance leaned back in his chair, his expression still unreadable. "You realise that your involvement could have screwed up our case against Stoker and Willis."
"Yeah, I weighed the options very carefully: two living agents and one maybe messed up crime scene or two dead agents and two bad guys who got away. It was close there for a while." Buffy's good-natured grin thinned to a hard smile. "But I thought you might be a little upset if Agent David and Agent McGee ended up with the back of their heads blown off or other bits if they'd set off the bomb. Good agents can't be easy to find these days."
The Director acknowledged her point with a short nod. "Are there any other times you've become involved in cases; might be nice to know before they go to trial – prosecutors get a little upset when their cases get tossed."
Buffy laid the backs of her forearms on the table and looked for the scar. "There it is. See that scar?" She pointed at it: four inches long; jagged; still pink at the edges. Those close enough looked, it wasn't hard to see; nor were the others.
McGee wondered, again, what the two lines of script on the inside of Buffy's right wrist were; he'd meant to ask when he'd seen her in the hospital.
Buffy pulled her arms back. "Got that the night you guys were investigating the Navy wife . . . killed by her husband, I think?"
"It was the husband's best friend who killed her," Ziva stated.
"Really? Huh. Anyway, remember when you and Agent DiNozzo went out looking for the guy's car, in the parking garage?" Ziva nodded. "There was something hunting you, probably 'cause you're smaller than DiNozzo and these things aren't really brave. 'Course, it might've had a thing for beautiful Israeli woman too." Buffy's grin was back. "Sure as hell fought hard enough." Buffy looked back at the Director. "That's about it."
Buffy remembered something else as well. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie containing a set of dog tags. She held the baggie up. "Agent McGee, could you pass these to Miss Sciuto. I saw them after I dusted one of the vamps the other night. Don't know if they'll help." McGee took the bag and handed it to Abby. "Did you get the rest of the evidence from the FBI?" McGee nodded. "Good. Agent Krieger's pretty cool; she's the lead agent of the FBI team assigned to work with me." Buffy looked at Agent David and smirked. "She said you were a wonderful teacher."
"And she is a very good student," Ziva replied, smiling slyly.
Gibbs glanced at Ziva with a strangely curious look and returned his focused to Buffy. "What's the point of all this – following us around, covering our asses?"
Buffy felt the nine stares, of varied intensity, smouldering against her skin. "Um, gonna stand now. The collective stares are giving me the paranoids." She rose from her chair and began a slow circuitous route around the table.
"You know what I am; whether you believe or not doesn't change that. My job is pretty much spelled out for me: find, hunt, kill. I'm good at it," she shrugged, "maybe even one of the best. Point is, that's what I do; I'm not an investigator, not when it comes to the mundane world." She paused to look out a window, eye lashes fluttered in the sun; lips twisted wryly. "All these disappearances . . . they're not just unlucky people, they're being targeted by someone . . . not just here, either." She stepped behind Daniel's chair; curled her fingers over the back. Daniel felt old instincts kick in; felt fingers dip down to the Glock he no longer carried.
Buffy leaned down and spoke quietly in Daniel's ear. "Can you pull up the sheet with all of the disappearances, please?"
Daniel nodded and reached for his glasses. Buffy continued her walk.
Canada
Biophysicist 1
Canadian Forces Land Force Command 23
Canadian Special Operations Forces 6
CSIS 2
Nuclear Technicians 3
RCMP 4
China
Engineer 4
Physicist 2
France
Army 8
Mathematician 1
Germany
Geneticist 2
Micro Biologist 1
Russia
Biochemist 2
Chemist 3
Nuclear Physicist 1
SVR: Russian Foreign Intelligence Service 3
United Kingdom
MI5 3
Royal Air Force 19
Scotland Yard 5
USA
Army 16
FBI 4
Homeland Security 2
Navy 32
NSA 1
Total
148
"That's an abbreviated list. Doesn't include specifics."
Everyone was facing the plasma now and not her, which was a relief; she thought the scrutiny they exhibited might need some reconciling though.
"The Guardians work with all kinds of people. They kind of ignore borders and all that crap about who owns, knows or wants what. Getting information isn't hard, when you don't have an ulterior motive – like oil or some sort of twisted religious belief.
"The first disappearances started 5 months ago in Europe and China; just a few here and there. The Guardians were asked to start a hunt for the abductees four months ago, which is when Canada, the United Kingdom and the US started reporting a growing trend of missing people, in Law Enforcement at first and then military and academics. When Navy personnel started disappearing here in large numbers the CGR asked me to keep my eye on NCIS.
"Like I said, Slayers are great at hunting things and killing them, but we suck as investigators. So, where do you go when you want to solve a crime?" Buffy stood to the right of the plasma and folded her hands behind her back. "You guys are the best at what you do. Was kind of hoping we could work together."
"You want to work with us . . . You think we need your help?" Gibbs' suspicion was plain.
Buffy spoke pragmatically. "If you keep working this case, you'll need my help and the Guardians' resources. You won't live long without us."
Gibbs frowned. "Do you know something we don't, Summers?"
Buffy smiled calmly. "Yep, probably lots of things. The big one, though – whatever is going on, it's got all the signs of . . ." Buffy considered the words that would best impact this particular group. "Well, 911, except all over the world and it won't stop and you won't be able to stop it – not without help. Same goes for me."
Gibbs looked at the Director, one eyebrow raised; Director Vance stared at Buffy.
"You're suggesting a terrorist attack with multiple targets at an international level. That's never happened and I'd like to think we're better prepared to prevent an attack like that from happening in the future."
Buffy tilted her head to the side and met Director Vance's stare – did a little searching of her own. "Ok. So, let's forget the fact that all your 'special agencies' have a harder time communicating with one another than two deaf, mute people on their first date – and I'm sure that's the same all over – and let's forget that you really have no idea what will be doing the terrorising or the fact that most of those things can't be tracked or traced using fingerprints, facial recognition or DNA, so you really aren't going to have a clue where to look before the attacks happen.
"This, whatever, started 5½ years ago, around the beginning of the war with Twilight. The Underworld started doing something it hasn't in a long time – it started getting organised. I figured they wanted to be ready to wipe out the winners in our little war but they haven't done anything big scale yet, which makes me think they're not really interested in Slayers anymore; they've decided to go really big. When people started disappearing, it set off some alarms. After the attack at the hangar and the storage place though, other things started to fit in place. Because those vampires were different: they were stronger, faster and didn't seem all that bothered by bullets – not that they were before, but at least they used to say 'ow' and twitch for a minute or two; they worked together and they seemed to have better control of their instincts; they used modern weapons; and, if Corporal Miller and the vamps at the locker are any example, the transition between their 'deaths' and when they wake up again is a lot longer.
"I don't know how you guys feel about coincidences, but I'm not a big fan; seems if you ignore them they always end up biting you on the ass."
Smiling nervously, DiNozzo asked, "So, what do they normally do?"
"Hunt, terrorize, feed, terrorize, make babies – kinda."
Gibbs smile wasn't nervous; it was subtly sarcastic. "So, what? You want us to figure this out for you while you play bodyguard?"
Buffy shook her head. "No, not exactly. I want you to do what you do best – investigate. And I'll do what I do best – kill anything that wants to stop you, and, maybe, provide answers to things that you probably won't understand. But I'm hoping I can learn a few things and maybe pass on some of the basics so you have a longer lives.
"I told you before that I've been working with the FBI and that's great, for some things, but you guys deal with the Navy, you know what's what and since that's where I'm being led I'm looking to improve the chances of figuring out the evil plans before the world becomes more 'Resident Evil' than it already is –and you guys are my cheat sheet."
Buffy's eyes flickered from face to face; her ears listened to heart beats; her instincts whispered,
'Let it go. Let them catch up.'
Buffy tugged on her shoes. "This is voluntary; this isn't a draft and no one can force you to work with me, not even your own government." She lifted her jacket from the back of her chair. "Also know you've got no reason to believe me – other than what you've seen – but I bet a few of you know people in other agencies; give them a call." She stood and threw her jacket over her shoulder. "I can give you a week to decide; I can't really wait any longer – waiting equals badness. Whatever you decide, it was nice to," she smiled and shrugged, "get to meet you all."
"That's it," Gibbs asked.
"Yep. Can't really tell you any more without a 'yes' or 'no'. Try to stay out trouble?" Buffy nodded at Director Vance and Daniel. "Directors," she said with a smirk.
After the door had closed behind Buffy Summers, Abby muttered, "What the hell?" and slapped McGee's hand. "Tell me you don't have a thing for crazy chick."
"You weren't there Thursday night, Abby," McGee answered distractedly.
Abby noticed a lot of that going around, many distracted faces and nary a voice, which was not at all reassuring.
Ziva looked like she was struggling: with her own perceptions of what was real; and the uncertainty of her ability to deal with what was to come – not the first time Abby had witnessed Ziva and her incongruous doubts since her return from Somalia.
Tony was, behind the facade of not believing a damn word crazy chick had said, doing exactly that – believing.
Ducky seemed to be reminiscing, though without the usual dialogue that accompanied his memories.
The Director – hers, not the guy who had been trying to sell Summers' story – seemed implacable, except for the gleam in his eyes, which, Abby guessed, spoke of his own aspirations and the welfare of his wife and children.
And Gibbs?
Gibbs looked sceptical with maybe a hint of scorn. But, there was something all too familiar about the micro-expressions flitting across his face: he looked like he'd found salvation; a chance to amend past mistakes, both personal and professional; one final war for the old warrior.
"Gibbs?"
"Yeah, Abby."
"You don't really believe crazy chick," her head darted quickly to Director Thorpe, "no offense," and back, "do you?"
Gibbs stared into space for a moment; Abby could see regrets falling from his eyes. "I don't believe anything yet, Abby, but I don't think she's playing us."
Director Thorpe spoke quietly as he rose to leave. "What we have discussed, including Miss Summers' brief contribution, is considered a matter of national security. We're not quite at the international level, though diplomats, both foreign and domestic, have been communicating. This isn't an exercise, nor is it some sort of psychological test. If you have any doubts then I suggest that you follow Miss Summers' advice and contact any connections you may have; she's affiliated with several of the agencies within the DOD and Justice, including the local PD.
"Miss Summers and I have worked together for 5½ months and I have learned, in that time, to trust her word when it concerns the Underworld and its agendas. She's been fighting this war for 13 years – longer than any other Slayer – I think she's earned my trust. I'm almost certain that she knew that this would happen, one day."
Tony laid his hands flat on the table and looked at Director Thorpe with cautious curiosity. "Uh, sorry, Director – what would happen?"
Daniel smiled. "Power does not necessitate good morals or ethics, Agent DiNozzo. Our own government, and many others around the world, could attest to that – if they were ever so humble. The enemy very much want their home back and with more than 6 billion food sources on the planet, most in poverty, and the most powerful nations attempting to win a game that can only end in greater destruction and chaos, I believe they have a very good chance of succeeding. As part of the agreement between the Guardians and the countries they're allied with, a report was compiled of criminal activities within those countries. The report covers 4½ years, from June 2004 to December 2008, and shows a dramatic acclivity in the number of unsolved homicides, assaults and abductions. Based on these figures and the reports of Slayers in the field, the Guardians estimate that the enemy numbers could be as high as 100,000 and the highest concentrations are located in Canada, the US, the United Kingdom, Russia and China." Daniel straightened his jacket, checked to see that his Blackberry was in his pockets and picked up the folders from the table.
"I realise that it's far too early to ask for your trust but I do hope that you will at least be open to the possibility. Buffy isn't always . . . politically correct? But she is fiercely loyal and more clever than she would like you to believe. I can't speak for her, but I can say that the people she's worked with – Agent Krieger, James Tripp, Paul Thorpe, Commander Paris and his team and myself – have learned that she is dedicated to resolving the threat as expediently as possible.
"Well, it has been a pleasure to meet you in person and not as a name on one of Miss Summers' reports. I hope you'll consider her offer. Have a lovely afternoon."
Tony looked around the table at the pensive and distracted faces. He was willing to follow Gibbs lead as he always had. Of course, there was always the – hopeful – possibility that everything he'd heard and seen in the past week could be explained as an hallucination brought on by a brain tumour.
Gibbs broke the silence. "Well, Director, what's next?"
Director Vance absently rolled a toothpick between thumb and index finger while he considered his answer. "Follow up on Winkler's Safe Store and get in touch with Agent Krieger at the FBI, I think it's about time we started coordinating our efforts. In the meantime, you all might want to give some thought to Summers' request and before you ask – I know as much as you, the only thing I can say is SECNAV is on board with the idea."
Gibbs stood and picked up his empty coffee cup. "And you, Director?"
Director Vance's answer was a cryptic look and a hint of a smile.