Tim slowly came to, weakly struggling then realizing, his hands were tied behind his back. His eyelids bounced like small window shades refusing to retract. He was slumped in a small wooden chair, exhausted from the pain coursing through his body. His head pounded with a vengeance, but with no surprise as he replayed the memory of the vicious beating his body had endured earlier. He managed to crack an eye open, squinting to focus in the strong light, searching the room he was confined in. He was startled when he detected movement to his left, the kid with black hair and freckles sat in the corner, ignoring him while reading a magazine.
"Hey, dare. Ah, yeah..you. S-s-so, what... haphens...happens now?" Tim was alarmed to hear his voice. The left side of his mouth felt swollen, figuring that was causing the slurred and impaired speech and hopefully not the aggressive beating the kid took out on his head, messing up the frontal lope of his brain that controlled his ability to talk. He thought it absurd that he actually remembered that part of the anatomy of the brain from the psych class he had taken so long ago.
"I think my frontal lope... hurts." He softly chuckled, sarcastically, realizing how dire his situation was, feeling hopeless and defeated. Tim knew this kid could be his only way out of this mess. So, maybe it couldn't hurt to develop a relationship with the guy.
"Hellloooo? Is there anybody..in..there?" The man across the room kept a straight face, ignoring him as he flipped through the pages of his magazine. "Did you move me...outta the warehouse to a house or s-s-s-omething? Cuz, it seems like we're in a houssse. I'm so tired...and diz-z-zy, but I know it would be stupid for me to even consider," Tim yawned, "taking a nap-"
The door of the room opened, banging off the wall, jolting them both. Tim's eyes were now wide with fear as they fell upon the man who entered the room. Tthe man he knew from before known as the ringleader.
Tim studied the man's face hoping to jog his memory. It had involved a case...he remembered joking with Ziva. A Commander...his son had stolen his... credit cards? He remembered the man had been livid which was understandable but, didn't handle the situation with the least bit of class; swearing up a storm and acting really grumpy and rude about the whole thing and taking it out on everybody willing to help... Crevits! Commander Crevits! And, his son's name was Fred! He had stolen the credit cards. Tim remembered the father had pressed charges against him.
Tim's line of strategy clicked into action. Tim had never met the kid in person but had seen a portrait of him on his father's mantle.
Crevits shoved an open cellphone into Tim's face. "Say something to let them know you're alive but be careful... no games."
Tim ignored the phone jamming in his ear, focusing his attention on Crevits.
"You son of a bitch, good for nothing piece of-" A crazed, evil glint, shown in Crevits', now; bugged-out eyes as he listened to the profanity that spewed from Tim's swollen mouth, locking his gaze on Tim's. A strong memory from his past was triggered by Tim's cruel words as he snapped, striking Tim with a blinding force that held no restraint.
The young man seated in the chair dropped his magazine, approaching Crevits from behind, cautiously grabbing his arm. "Hey! Stop it already! You're going to kill him!"
The glaze that had momentarily filled Crevits' eyes lifted as he came back to his senses. His chest heaved as he fought to control his breathing, "You have till sunset then he dies." Crevits yelled into the phone then flipped it closed, turning to the black-haired man, his voice full of contempt, "Make sure he doesn't get away!" Crevits left the room, slamming the door.
The black-haired man glared down at Tim, "What is wrong with you? Do you have a death wish or something?" The man was genuinely perplexed after witnessing Tim's behavior. He shook his head then returned to his chair in the corner. He gave Tim one last glare then resumed to read his magazine.
Tim hadn't listened to the kid's reprimand, the roar in his ears stronger and distracting. The room spun and everything became blurry and detached. He fought to stay awake as his head swayed, uncontrollably. He clumsily began to tug and work at loosening his bonds...there was no way it could end like this. He was basically just sentenced to death at sunset... just like one of Tony's old cowboy movies; execution at sundown …or maybe, it was dawn. Then again when were shootouts scheduled? It'd be kinda dark at sunset for a shootout, but he'd have a better chance if it was a shootout. Shootouts were probably scheduled for noon. But then there was the possibility of the sun getting in your eyes. Would they eat lunch first? He didn't think Crevits would be offering him any last meals.
Tim stared at the floor wondering how this had turned so bad. Of all the thoughts running through his head, they all kept returning to Ziva. He realized he would never be able to tell her how he felt about her. A tear ran down his bruised cheek, "I shouldn't have waited."
Tim saw two sympathetic eyes peering at him in his peripheral vision. The man sighed, frowning then returned his attention to his magazine.
"Hey...what's your name? You know, since we're both stuck in here, we might as well get to know each other better. I'd hate for my last hours to be staring at this dingy, yellow wall in front of me." Tim was hoping to play on the man's sympathies. He felt the warmth of his blood run over his hands from working at his ropes. He knew it was futile but he was not going to give up.
"That guy's name is Fred, isn't it? Could you tell me yours...we'll keep it a first name basis." He waited but didn't expect an answer. "Well, I'll just call you... Mike. You kinda look like a Mike, at least like my cousin Mike who used to ride ostriches." Tim was looking at the floor at this point, talking to the air. "He had a ranch out in...um, Arizona. He was going to raise them for meat," Tim flashed an expression of disgust, at the thought of it, then continued, "but den...he realized he didn't wanna kill'm. Said they were too cute and pretty stupid."
"So... how 'bout it, Mike? Yah know...releas-s-s-sing me...then, I could try to help you."
"I'm Tim. I, uh..I've been an NCIS Special Agent since I was...about 24, which I'm guessing that's about your age now...?" Tim waited then continued. "I have a dog named Jethro. His teeth are probably floating at this point...poor guy. Do you have any pets? Gold...fish? Ham...ster? Maybe a fly that keeps flyin' 'round you? If you name him, that constitutes as a pet, you could call'm Lindbergh or Amelia Earhart. Do girl flies exist?"
"Maybe the talking part of my brain… has been compromised...I don't usually talk this much...I suppose you've noticed that I really want to keep awake for my remaining time here on earth, since I'll be taking a pretty long cat nap once ol' Fred does me in. Ya see...NCIS makes no deals. If they did... everyone and their grandmother would be rich, kidnapping federal agents and collecting ransoms on a daily basis."
Tim winced, his wrists were now raw and extremely painful. He squeezed his eyes as his head began to roll from side to side. "I'm so thirsty."
"I wish I could talk to Tony about all this...get things straightened out." Tim could feel sweat beginning to trickle down the sides of his face. "Tony was being Tony. Being his usual Tony self but more Tonyish than usual. Ya know... funny but not really funny but he thinks he's funny and doesn't notice that no one else thinks he's funny...and he's the only one laughing ...I'm so...tired." Tim's head rolled to the side, quietly slipping into unconsciousness.
Mike was relieved to hear him stop talking then looked at him for a minute with a sympathetic expression. "Poor guy." He walked over to him feeling for a pulse then adjusting his head so his chin could rest on his chest. He noticed beads of blood on the floor, directly under Tim's hands seeing the evidence of desperation on Tim's wrists. He kneeled down getting a closer look at the pooled blood. "Shit!" he whispered, loudly.
He left the room, momentarily, returning with a can of beer. "This is the coldest thing I could find… Tim." He placed it on the side of Tim's face where it was the most swollen. "Maybe it'll help. I don't know why you goaded him into pummeling you like that, but I've developed some weird kind of respect for you now." Tim's eyes flashed open, slightly relieved by the coldness of the can then his head fell back, falling into a deep unconscious state. Mike kept the can in place, staring at the closed door, watching for any sign of Fred returning. He contemplated what Tim had said about the agency's rule of making no deals with kidnappers then sadly looked at Tim.
xxxx
"We have your agent and if you want to see him alive again, you must-"
The team was surrounding Gibbs' desk listening to the recorded message of Tim's captors forwarded from Vance's phone. Palmer and Ducky had joined the group to offer any helpful suggestions that might come up. They replayed it over and over, obtaining more clues each time they listened.
Abby was a mess, she had listened to it with the same terrified reaction each time; covering her mouth trying to hold in frantic sobs. Gibbs stood protectively beside her, comforting her with his arm around her shoulder. "We'll get him back, Abs."
The recording proceeded with Vance asking to talk to McGee to make sure he was still alive. A shuffle noise could be heard followed by a loud bang in the background then McGee cursing into the phone; there was no mistaking his voice which baffled the team to why he would do something so out of character.
"You son of a bitch, piece of-" then they heard the distinct sound of flesh against flesh, as Tim was beaten in the background. Abby's face was full of anguish and confusion, "Why would McGee instigate that? He's obviously physically restrained with no way to defend himself..."
Everyone looked at each other silently, agreeing with slow nods as they continued to brood.
Ziva gasped, looking around the bullpen with wide eyes. "That's it...McGee doesn't swear but that Commander man does!" Ziva stared, blankly across the room, trying to fully trigger her memory.
"Huh?" Asked Tony.
Ziva was impatient and frustrated, her hands waving in the air, while her fingers snapped, mentally grasping at fragments of her memory. "Remember that Navy Commander, a few months ago, his credit cards were stolen?"
"Crenshaw?" A look of cautious doubt twisted Tony's facial features, "No. Cevits!" He pointed at Ziva, displaying hope in his changing expression.
"His son was the one who had stolen the credit cards. The Commander was cursing up a storm drain."
Palmer softly chuckled, "It's just storm," He was unable to control his chuckling, while looking around the room, as stern faces stared back at him. He cleared his throat then regained his previous somber expression, "Yeah...uh, no drain. Just storm...would, ah, be the correct...way to…uh, never mind."
Ziva ignored Palmer, "Well, Muh-Gee and I couldn't believe the offensive language he was using within our presence. We were secretly commenting among ourselves the trash mouth on him-"
"Oh my gosh! I remember! And I think, if I'm not mistaken, those were the actual words he used to describe his son when we were there. Or at least, something close to that." Agreed, Tony.
"Ziver, bring him up on the plasma."
Ziva's fingers flew over Tim's keyboard to bring up the son's identity and criminal record. "Oh yes, I recognize his face from a photo at the Commander's home. Gibbs, his current address is his father's but when we were there last his father hadn't seen him for at least a few months-"
"Ziva?"
"Yes, Gibbs."
"Make some calls... see when the father has last seen him... DMV, probationary, anyone who might have a clue to his whereabouts."
Ziva ran back to her desk.
Tony, you-"
"Put out a BOLO on Fred Crevits, on your six boss."
Gibbs circled his desk then sat behind it, exhaling loudly as Ducky, Abby and Palmer stood close by. "Jethro, if this is the case, our young Timothy went out on a limb to deliver that clue of his whereabouts. He may now be facing dire results. We could distinctly hear the physical abuse that was inflicted upon him from the sounds over the phone. If Timothy did actually speak to Mr. Crevits in the same tone and language his father has used on him throughout his life, he will be more than be pleased to displace his anger and release his frustrations on young, Timothy."
Gibbs sighed, again. "Yeah, you read my mind, Duck. I just used less words in my head to get to the same conclusion.
"Gibbs, I just got off the phone with Crevits' dentist!"
"Dentist?" Asked Abby.
"Well...I had to dig." Ziva answered exasperated.
"Good work, Ziva." Gibbs gave her a wink.
"Apparently he just had a tooth fixed, he broke his tooth on a caramel-"
"Ziver, do you have Crevits' address?"
"Yes Gibbs!" Ziva smiled as she grabbed her coat and weapon.
"Tony! Ziva, let's go!" Gibbs retrieved his weapon.
"Godspeed, Jethro!" Yelled Ducky.
"If anyone can bring Tim back, they can." Assured Abby as she squeezed Ducky then gave Palmer a worried smile.
