About a week later…
Ziva tapped the steering wheel lightly, hoping to pass the time by absentmindedly playing along to the music coming from her radio.
She had been sitting in traffic for an hour – an entire hour – already, and it was severely testing her notoriously limited patience. Traffic she could deal with, normally, since it was nothing new in DC, but normally she was not this late. Normally she didn't get lost on her morning workout route (it had only been four months, she kept telling herself, but this was a new neighborhood). Normally she didn't start the day this frustrated.
Well, if she was stuck, Tony would be too, and that brought a slightly spiteful smirk to her face.
Several minutes of idling passed, complete with blaring car horns, some cursing, and loud bass-heavy music from a few obnoxious idiots a few cars back. Still she had only moved about twenty feet. Hardly what she would call the thrill of driving, something she had missed dearly.
Someone flicked her off as she jerked her car into an adjacent lane, trying to at least get closer to her exit. She wasn't fazed by that reaction, instead mildly enjoying it. It made this tedious commute a little less dull, at least.
Her current position was maybe ten minutes away from the NCIS headquarters, at the most, and by the look of things, it would take three times that long just to get off the interstate.
Imagining Gibbs's reaction was slightly less funny now.
But – maybe – if she called him, or McGee (who, she thought sourly, took the train most days and did not have to deal with this), she could avoid getting stuck with paperwork all morning. If they caught a case, she could meet them there, and not waste time maneuvering downtown.
It was considerably risky, taking her eyes off the road and hands off the wheel, but in her haste earlier that morning she had thrown her cell phone in the backseat. It was out of her immediate reach, possibly even on the floor, and she had to completely twist her body around to stretch her fingers –
The glass on the passenger side window shattered with an explosive force, something small and powerful whizzing over the top of her left shoulder. It was only a split second, hardly measurable, before the driver's side window was nothing more than shards, too.
Ziva was shocked into paralysis, still half twisted in her seat, eyes widened with fear and adrenaline.
If she had not reached for her phone at that exact second, that bullet (fuck) would have gone straight through her head.
Fucking fuck.
It was only seconds before everything came rushing in.
The pain in her shoulder was searing, burning. She retracted her hand from the wound with a stifled cry, fighting the panic as her fingers came back damp and red. Very red. Stinging, blinding, stunning her into place.
But –
Not dying. She wasn't dying. She could feel that much, even with the gaping slice of her shoulder missing, spilling onto her skin.
A graze?
It mattered little, in the current moment, because her entire arm was rendered immobile as she tried to move it just inches toward the door.
Someone in the car next to her was screaming, or yelling, or something.
Quickly she pulled the handle with her other hand, kicking out at the door as she cradled her arm to her side. Her exit from the car was not graceful, and she stumbled towards the ground, scraping her palm against the pavement.
Doors and windows were opening all around, angry and confused shouts blending.
"What's happened? Who's hurt?"
"Someone call 911!"
"What the fuck is going on here?"
"Ma'am, wait! You need –"
"Stay away from me!" hissed Ziva, pushing through the few bystanders brave enough to get out of their cars.
Horns honked in warning as she crossed through the lanes, weaving between stopped cars, staggering each time her arm jostled.
Instinct sharpened her pace. Run, keep running, get the hell out of here. Don't go back for your gun. Just go. The shelter of the overpass loomed ahead.
By the time the paramedics and the other emergency crews arrived on scene, she was gone.
Tony pushed his finger down on the button of the small remote he was holding, the next picture from some crime scene popping up with a little click.
He'd been late this morning, on account of the ridiculous backup on the highway, and it had not been without consequence. Gibbs had given him the option of perusing these photos for the hundredth time (sixth, but still) or making copies of medical records for the case file (was there no such thing as interns?).
He chose the photos.
McGee was repeatedly being put on hold on the phone, which was hardly any better than this, at least. Gibbs himself was on a coffee run, probably waiting to stride in at the perfect moment, per usual.
Ziva, mysteriously, was absent.
He'd given up wondering about her uncharacteristic tardiness almost forty minutes ago, but it was hard not to get flustered when they were supposed to be tackling this painfully boring and apparently fruitless task together.
Would it kill her to call, though?
(Later, much later, he will kind of laugh about this phrasing.)
Unless she was at some sort of appointment, he conceded, but that was a weird thought. He always had the impression that she was freakishly healthy, and disregarded such mundane things as checkups.
Ten minutes passed.
Still nothing on those photos, not that he was giving them his undivided attention. McGee was still on hold (which got less funny with each minute that passed, sadly).
And Gibbs –
"DiNozzo," he called suddenly from behind, striding across the room and placing his coffee down.
No gear up or grab your gear or anything. He was hunched over, as if studying the surface of his desk. As if preoccupied.
Odd.
Tony watched him expectantly, apprehensive, remote still in hand.
"Where's Ziva?"
And so the gut churned.
"Uh, don't know Boss, I was thinking you would."
Gibbs stared at him, still hunched over his desk. Tony shook his head at himself.
"Right, then you wouldn't be asking."
"McGee."
McGee's head perked up from behind his computer monitor at Gibbs's voice.
"Yes Boss?"
"Do you have access to her scheduling thingy?" asked Gibbs, pointing to Ziva's computer for clarification. McGee, who had long since graduated from being confused by Gibbs's lack of technology-speak, nodded assuredly.
He hesitated as his hands were hovering over his colleague's keyboard.
"You know she's gonna kill me when she finds out I'm going through her stuff," he mumbled to Tony, who was now right next to McGee, waiting impatiently.
"Not if Gibbs kills her first," Tony whispered back, stealing a glance at Gibbs, who was making a phone call and glaring into space.
Two minutes later Gibbs slammed the phone shut, angrily hooking it back to the clip on his belt. Apparently Ziva wasn't answering.
(That's like three rules broken right there, probably.)
"You two find anything yet?"
McGee stopped typing, doing his best to look apologetic.
"No appointments or prior commitments, assuming she updates this. She should be here," concluded McGee, his tone leading and puzzled.
"You try her home phone, Boss?"
Stare.
"Of course you did," muttered Tony, returning to his position of hovering over McGee and the computer.
"Trace her cell," commanded Gibbs, moving closer to Ziva's desk and the two members of his team currently working at it. McGee nodded, a bit of an uneasy frown etched on his face.
"If you say so," he replied, ignoring his teammate's low whistle at the speed of his fingers flying across the keys.
"Am I the only one with a bad feeling about this?" asked Tony darkly, finally voicing what had been bothering him the second he arrived before her.
(Their expressions said enough.)
After some furious typing and about a minute of expectant silence, the coordinates of Ziva's cell phone flashed up onto the plasma, which by now Gibbs and Tony were waiting in front of impatiently. McGee rose from his seat and joined them soon after.
The three of them stared at the results lightly flashing on the screen, silent.
"Think she's stuck in traffic?" piped up Tony after seeing his partner's location. It seemed plausible enough. It was on the route she normally took to work.
"She would've answered her damn phone," Gibbs responded knowingly, obviously having already thought of that.
"Maybe it's dead?"
"Not if I traced it," responded McGee, who was beginning to share Tony's bad feeling.
The shrill ringing of a phone broke the tension of their speculations, each slightly startled at the unexpected interruption. Gibbs sprang into action, striding back to his desk.
"Gibbs," he answered quietly, bringing the receiver to his ear. McGee and Tony shared a look, uneasy.
Two minutes. It was impossible to tell what their boss was hearing, his affect as tightly controlled as ever. He mumbled something like 'preciate it before slamming the receiver back down.
"Metro PD found her Mini abandoned on the interstate, glass everywhere but no other damage and witnesses didn't see any other vehicles involved. All of her things were still in the car."
"And Ziva?" prompted Tony, eyes narrowed seriously.
"Blood on the driver seat, but no sign of her."
His stomach dropped from under him, mind racing.
"How much blood?" he continued, voice strained, dread beginning to crawl up his throat.
Gibbs had no answer for that.
"Tony, with me. Grab the keys. McGee check with the hospitals, see if she's there."
"Got it," the youngest agent responded, spinning on his heel and began walking back to his desk with a new sense of urgency.
"And let Duck and Abby know," Gibbs added, pulling open his drawer to get his weapon. "We may need 'em."
Tony had only taken one step toward the elevator before stopping in his tracks.
Ziva was standing right in his path, hovering between her desk and his.
Oh.
She grimaced mildly at Tony's shock and the images on the plasma, still flashing with her phone's location, before speaking.
"I doubt that, Gibbs."
Gibbs immediately snapped his head around and McGee almost dropped the receiver he was holding.
"Shit," Tony muttered, staring openly, not moving. He was too dumbfounded by her appearance to say anything more than that.
Her arms and face were marred with tiny cuts, angry, red, some still smearing little droplets on her skin. But they were easily dwarfed by the large gash on her left side that started right above her collarbone and ended at the back edge of her shoulder. The majority of her chest and upper arm were streaked with blood, an uneven, concerning mix of dried and fresh.
She also seemed to have sweat through her shirt, moisture still clinging around her chin and forehead.
"Did you run here?"
She ignored him, instead directing her attention to Gibbs, who had quickly made his way over to where she was standing. He gently placed a firm hand on her uninjured shoulder and looked her directly in the eyes, authoritative yet concerned.
"Hospital. Now. You can explain on the way."
"No, Gibbs, really. There is no need. I am fi—"
"I'll say when there's a need."
Maybe more authoritative than concerned, then.
"I –" she began to protest, but was fiercely cut off.
"Not a debate. Come on."
Damn it, how was she supposed to explain?
"I should not leave the building," she snapped, frustrated at his insistence that she go to the hospital.
Gibbs froze, eyeing her, considering. He was no stranger to her stubbornness, especially in situations like these, and he was in no mood to literally drag her to the car.
(DiNozzo silently agreed. He preferred all his bones intact.)
"Fine," he conceded, moving behind her desk and pulling the chair out into the open. "Sit. McGee – Ducky?"
"On his way up."
Ziva greatly wanted to comment on what she felt was unwarranted concern, but she held her tongue, reluctantly lowering herself onto the seat that was rolled out for her.
She did not meet her partner's eyes, glued to her like she might pass out at any moment.
Well –
"Ah, there you are," came a familiar voice to her right, revealing a visibly worried Doctor Mallard, followed by an even more visibly scared Abby.
As if she wasn't uncomfortable enough.
"Timothy told me you were in an accident?" he prompted, gesturing for Tony to grab him a chair.
"Hardly," she replied darkly, finding it difficult to avoid all five pairs of eyes on her.
(They burned almost as much as her arm.)
There was nothing accidental about it. The only reason the shooter missed was because she had turned around to reach for her cell phone, which had she done so even a tenth of a second later, would've resulted in instant death.
But how? How did they know where she would be? Would she not have noticed someone following her?
And who?
She knew she had plenty of enemies, but the majority of them probably didn't even know she was in the States. You couldn't be someone in her position and not have enemies. But still, she did not believe she had pissed off anyone that much recently.
Who would have the balls to attempt to gun her down on the middle of the interstate in broad daylight? Was she herself even the target? Could the rest of the team be in danger? All of NCIS?
Who had that much of a vendetta against her?
It hadn't even been a month since her return from Israel…
"Oh?" Ducky prompted, intrigued, dabbing peroxide on one of her many cuts.
He then drew his attention to the large cut on her shoulder, suspicious of her silence.
"And was this from the glass as well?"
She met the penetrating, eerily knowing gaze of Gibbs to her left, disregarding the entirely different stare coming from her partner. Like he was trapping her into something she was reluctant to start.
"No. Someone shot at me."
Abby gasped.
She could sense Tony stiffen, but she could not see him.
"Did you get a look at him? Or a license plate – anything?" asked McGee, spurred into action by the strange silence that hung.
"There was nothing to see. He only fired one shot, from a distance."
"Sniper?" guessed Tony, though it felt less like a guess with each passing second.
She nodded.
"So you did run here."
For this, she spared him only half a glare.
"You two make sure she stays," Gibbs barked at his two male agents, waving a finger between them and heading towards the stairs. "I need to talk to Vance."
Ziva hardly seemed to have heard him, instead leaning back in her chair while Ducky – chattering away – worked on cleaning her shoulder, her other hand covering the armrest in a vicious-looking grip.
"Hey Tony," whispered McGee, not wanting to broadcast his concerns to either of the two women in the room.
"What," he replied, normally (which was unusual enough), not taking his eyes off his partner. His clenched, still-sweating partner.
"Is it just me or does Ziva seem a little –"
(Wait for it, he almost said, seeing it happen before it does.)
She was out before she fell, Ducky catching her awkwardly before she hit the floor completely.
"Pale," McGee finished stupidly, his words drowned by Abby's squeals and Ducky's suddenly authoritative commands.
Tony's eyes were angry, humorless.
"That was a good call McGee," he responded, mocking, because what else was he supposed to do?
They were both stuck watching.
"We'll make a federal agent of you, yet."
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