Not mine.
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"We have a problem."
Kate had spent the last three days trying unsuccessfully to banish from her mind the events of that day. She kept telling herself that she had done the right thing, that he was a terrorist, that he'd shot Gerald, that he could have killed everyone who got in the way of him getting out. Her subconscious had filed the dead man in her folder of people-nobody-would-miss-and-the-world-would-be-better-without. She'd been cleared in his death by the director and Internal Affairs. In defense of self and others, or something like that. Justified.
Tell that to her soul.
She'd killed before, in the Secret Service, and here at NCIS- that evil kidnapper in Columbia came to mind. For some unidentifiable reason, though, she couldn't get his face out of her head. It was burned into her subconscious just as it had looked when he fell to the Autopsy floor, thrashing back and forth, then less so.
Kate could never be sure, but he might have been crying.
Her mother had often told her something along the lines of "You have a dear and tender heart", or something equally sappy. Words which usually appeared immediately after one or another of her family members broke her heart, whether it was by killing the mouse they'd found in their basement -why couldn't they just shoo it outside?- or flushing her (live) goldfish down the toilet as punishment for back-talking.
She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd done something unforgivably wrong. Then there was that Damocles premonition, the sense of impending doom. That nagging feeling in her subconscious that she'd lost something. That she'd contaminated her soul.
Every time she thought about Autopsy, or a blade, or someone dying, or even NCIS, a dark cloud fell over her mind. She kept envisioning herself locking that moment in Autopsy into a safe and forgetting the combination. So she'd never bring it up again.
Time to open the bunker and see what evil she had wrought.
"He wasn't a terrorist." Kate felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. "What?" "He was an undercover Mossad agent."
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Director Morrow was arguing. With a screen. Or rather, the person on the other side of the screen. Or rather, one of the billions of people on the other side of the planet, oddly enough the only one yelling through a computer screen back at the aforementioned Director Morrow.
"Do you have any idea what your agent's little stunt cost us? It took decades to-"
"We did ask you if you knew him, Eli. That was the time to say something, not now, when it's way too late. I know neither of us wanted your agent dead and mine with blood on her hands."
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You could have told them. You could have saved him. This is all your fault.
Don't blame me for this. Blame her. She's the one who actually did it.
I just might. Be careful what you wish for.
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"Mossad's pissed at us. They've insisted on sending one of their agents to work with us as a liaison officer."
"You mean to keep an eye on us."
"Your words. Not mine, not theirs. I expect you to treat their agent like a member of your team. We don't need this getting any messier."
"What'd they tell us about this agent?"
"Name's Liat Tuvia. 23, high-achieving, apparently. Multiple citations for gallantry, bravery, the whole nine yards. Sounds like she'll be a real asset."
"Sounds like she'll be a real headache, Director."
"Funny how often that happens. Look at DiNozzo. Hell, look at you."
Little did they know that the arrival of this particular "headache" would change the team forever.