AN: Well, all you US soccer fans… this would have been up earlier if I hadn't stopped to watch my lot - except for Stevie G - publicly embarrassing themselves against you! No wonder Clint Dempsey raised prayerful hands to heaven… good luck with your other matches… go Tim Howard!

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 4

Kent Fuller was talking to someone who was clearly the local cop in charge, as the NCIS agents approached.

"I spoke to my chief, sorted the jurisdiction problem at least as far as we're concerned," the cop was saying. "With two agencies involved, we're happy to cede here. If you keep us posted, we're happy to let you have anything we might get. I'll send you the witness statements we took." They shook hands, and the cops, who'd marked out a perimeter then awaited instructions, departed, leaving two officers to discourage the curious.

Kent looked weary and despairing as he greeted NCIS. "The marine who survived is critical," he said, coming straight to the point. "Don't know when or if we'll be able to get a statement from him. Witnesses – two young female runners – say they saw the three walking through the park an hour ago, laughing and joking. They smiled at them. They did the circuit once, and saw them again, sitting under the trees. They waved, so they decided they'd go over and talk to them after the next circuit. When they came round again, they knew something was wrong straight away. Their prompt call may have saved one life, but it was too late for two of them. It was that quick."

He pointed to some flattened grass at the foot of a tree close by where the two young men lay, their bodies still twisted with the effort of trying to draw breath. "The third victim may have survived because of something as simple as the fact that he was sitting up, leaning against that tree."

Tim, nodded thoughtfully. "It's easier to breathe sitting than lying. But he's critical all the same."

Kent waved an arm at the bodies, his face creased with frustration. "How many more? I let this get away from me once – how many more people is this stuff going to kill?"

Gibbs said mildly, "Don't recall you even knew it existed when it got away."

Fuller couldn't fault that logic, and he smiled wanly, but it didn't last long.

McGee added his crumb of comfort. "Nothing's good about two people dying;" he said sadly, "But the fact that one was a Marine brings us on board, so at least you have some help on this."

Kent sort of smiled again. "First time I worked with you guys, I told my boss I never wanted to ever again," he said wryly.

"Feel differently now, then?" Tony asked smugly.

"Still not sure about you, DiNozzo."

Tony concealed his grin as Ducky came hurrying across the grass.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

There was little to be found where the young men had died; the packs that the dope had been in when they bought it were pretty standard, and all they could hope was that perhaps Abby could find a print that didn't belong to a victim. Kent let his team know that he was going to NCIS again, and they went back to compare notes.

Standing around the plasma screen, Gibbs and Ziva filled Kent in on what Ms. Strothers had said. He nodded thoughtfully. "Do we know if he took the cement at the same time that he took the drugs?"

"She did not say either way, but I can find out. She is still here in interrogation," Ziva told him. "Is this important?"

"It could be," Kent said. Tony and Gibbs kept silent, already knowing why; Ziva was seeking information, and Tim, although he could hazard a guess, thought it best to hear what the expert said. "It's clear that at least some of it went on the market uncut," Kent went on. "Usually, for the practice of speedballing, the buyer expects a higher quality from the cocaine, but nobody ever expects it to be pure. So whoever made up the speedballs was an idiot in two ways. If you cut it you make more money, which is what matters to them, so if they didn't check, that's stupid. If what they're selling kills people, they won't get rid of it so easily, which, again, is what's important to them. It also brings them to the attention of people like us, who don't like them killing. That's really stupid of them."

There was that bleakness, that blackness in his eyes that they'd seen before. The DEA chief was a dangerous man, as dangerous as they were; he might be allowing himself a moment of despondency just now, but they didn't doubt that together, they'd deal with this latest twist in the tale of the Starling consignment, just as they had the others. He could do without any of his agents getting hurt this time, though, Gibbs added to himself.

Tony was thinking how desperately brought down and serious they all were; how much the deaths of two foolish but essentially innocent young men weighed on them. He wanted to make a silly joke to lighten things, but he hadn't the heart to even try.

"So, if there are not to be more deaths, you would prefer to hear that the cutting had taken place," Ziva supposed.

"That's right. Cutting it with cement is bad enough, it causes its own problems."

"Severe inflammation of the nasal passages, and lungs," Tony put in, feeling his chest tighten at the mere thought. Fuller winced. He'd never actually talked with Tony about it, but he'd heard the urban legend of the fed who'd taken his fifteen per cent chance and beaten what most gossips erroneously called the Black Death, and knew it was true.

He flashed him a sympathetic grimace. "That's right," he agreed. "And that can lead to death too if a user has other health problems. Just not so frequently. It wouldn't be a certainty, if Tressel came back and asked for the cement, that he'd thought better of passing it on pure, and was about to start cutting it right away, but it would suggest it."

"I will find out at once," Ziva said, more happily, and hurried out.

"It might give us an idea of what to expect," Tim said. "Which reminds me…" he left the group and returned to his desk.

"And any information's better than none" Gibbs added. "It can be used or discarded later." A face came up on the plasma.

"Ziva mentioned this; she called to tell me to join you, to go to the crime scene. I'd found Tressel, so I set up a search on the word 'stork', and left it to run while we were away."

The face on the screen was of a mournful black man with huge, soulful, sad eyes and a long nose. "Hosea Manders, height six foot six and a half inches, AKA Stork. String of minor convictions, fencing, larceny, only one drug related. Never shown up as anything but small time. One of Chaz Tressel's convictions is for breaking and entering. No better candidate shows up as a possibility for his friend."

"Nice work, McGee." Gibbs paused as Ziva returned.

"Tressel came back to the reclamation yard two days later to ask for the cement," she said. "I understand that we can assume nothing, but this may be good news, yes?"

There were nods of agreement all round, and Gibbs looked at Fuller. "What about your scout, and the guy DiNozzo made into a pancake?"

"Dominic's got a few bruises, but he'll be OK. They asked him about the 'spark', because they'd seen him talking to Alex Hahn, who's on my team. Alex always acts a bit physical and threatening, so the scouts don't look willing to be talking to him, and Dom figured they wanted to know what he'd wanted. Had the fed been asking about the uncut stuff, and what had he told Dom? The kid didn't know anything, so he ran. I've seen to it that he'll get an extra payment, and told him to stay low until he goes back to college in ten days time. But it was clear that word had got out already. Didn't take long to find out how – DiNozzo's pancake."

Tony smiled dubiously. "My pancake's talking?"

"You didn't hit him that hard, DiNozzo."

"No…" Tony said, at last seizing on a chance at levity. "I mean, I only caught a glimpse of him before I pointed out the foolishness of taking on a truck when all you've got is a teeny little Ruger…"

"It was a Beretta."

"Oh, well, of course you had time to look. I was busy. Ahem… as I was saying, only a glimpse… but if that Neanderthal was capable of human speech before I hit him, I'd be surprised."

"Just shut up and listen," Gibbs, Kent and Ziva all said at once. Tim looked disappointed that he hadn't thought of it.

"Talking pancake. I'm listening," Tony said with the usual gleam in his eyes.

"The pancake's name is Ethan Walker. He works for Oscar Sablea."

There was a moment of silence, then Tony gave a low whistle. They'd all heard of Oscar Sablea. Ziva said, "I have heard that name, but I do not know much."

Tony sighed. "We put away Walt Pascoe. He was pretty big. We dealt with Dale Nickless, who, given his nastiness, would probably have become bigger. Neither of them were anything like as big as Sablea, everyone wants to put him away, and no-one's ever managed to pin anything on him. Public benefactor, friend of senators, legitimate businessman… fingers in every illegal pie on the East Coast…" Tony suddenly thought of his father, and fell abruptly silent.

Kent, who knew nothing of DiNozzo's past, it was the last subject that ever came up when Tony talked to a friend - simply thought he was allowing him to continue. "One of Sablea's guys was on remand for dealing; he got talking to Aldo Gigli in prison. Remember him? He told Sablea's guy about the stuff that went in the landfill. He said Sablea wasn't so stupid as to believe that was what really happened. He's into construction… knows city ordinances, and who to bribe… he knew about recycling laws. I'm prepared to bet that we'll find that one of his people's had a quiet word with someone at the reclaiming yard… money will have changed hands, and by now Sablea knows who took that bag of sand."

"Chaz Tressel may not know it yet," Gibbs said wryly, "but he's in big trouble. So's Stork," he said, jerking a thumb at the plasma screen.

"Oh, yeah," Fuller said. "DiNozzo's pancake said as much. Sablea doesn't mind enterprising small businessmen… he's a pragmatist."

"My pancake knew the word 'pragmatist'?" Tony said. There was an oddly bitter note in his voice, although it was quite possible that only Gibbs noticed it. He had certainly been the only one to notice the SFA's abrupt change of mood, and he threw him a look.

Hey… I understand. But back on track here… DiNozzo blinked slowly, and nodded imperceptibly as Kent went on.

"What he doesn't like are rank amateurs, people who rock the boat. Warner said that the word had gone out, all the way down the line, to find these guys, and something else Sablea likely knows by now, is that we've got Little Miss Strothers."

"So he knows that we're looking for Tressel," Tony said.

"And we know that he's looking for Tressel," Tim said.

"And he knows that we know," Tony picked up.

"And we know that he knows…" Tim was starting to enjoy himself.

"And he knows that -nmfggh!" Gibbs administered two headslaps at once, with perfect timing. And smiled. Tony was back on track.

"If this Sablea is so much to be feared, why was this pretzel… er, pancake, so willing to talk?" Ziva asked.

"He wanted a deal. He's a pragmatist too – he screwed up, and although Sablea isn't known for hunting down minor henchmen who make mistakes, he knows he won't be welcome back. So, he's looking out for himself best way he can. So… Gibbs, how d'you want to play this?"

"You're OK with us taking the lead again?"

Fuller shrugged, his natural good humour emerging for the first time in hours. "Seemed to work OK last time."

Gibbs thought for a moment. "You're the people who know who to talk to. Get your team out in the field, you know who to ask, what to ask. Ya wanna take DiNozzo? Get him out of my hair for a bit?" Tony feigned outrage. Tim's was a bit more genuine. Gibbs saw his look, and shook his head. "Oh, no. I've been conned by you two once today… McGee, I need you here. Check credit card activity, vehicles. Talk to Metro. They can have Miss Strothers, tell them not to let anyone snatch her. She don't know squat. Update them, see what they can give you. Any electronic thing else you can think of. Ziva, you and me, last known addresses."

He turned to leave, following Fuller and DiNozzo, then swung back. "If there's anything significant in the autopsies, call me. If anyone else dies, call me. You can get some help in if you need to. For instance, I know Special Agent Cassidy is bored out of her brain with cold cases in Quantico, waiting for her new team to be assigned…" He swept out. Tim pouted for a moment, then decided he could do most of it from the lab, and went to see if Abby had raised a print.

Kent decided that it would be good to have Blossom along, and they set off in the truck to fetch her. Tony noticed with a grin that there was still a chunk of rotten boathouse door lodged in the Ranger's radiator grille. They were scarcely mobile, when Kent's cell phone buzzed. He listened for a few moments, grunted an affirmative a few times, and disconnected. He pulled over to the kerb and frowned.

"One of my usual informers," he said. "Knows we're looking for what he called killer spark. Says he knows something, wants to meet us."

"D'you trust him?"

"As far as I trust anyone out there, I guess. He's not let me down yet… and before you say it, I always treat these things as potential traps. Just like you do."

Tony grinned. "Well, that's fine then. I'm right behind you."

"Gee, thanks, DiNozzo. You're all heart."

The address the informant had given the agents turned out to be a small dry-cleaners, with a notice in the window that said 'Closed for the holidays', and there was no immediate sign of Albie the informant. The two feds drew their guns and tried the door. It opened into a neat, well-cared for shop, with everything in place and looking exactly as would be expected if the owners were simply out of town for a while. Tony eased his way into the back room, where the cleaning machines were, while Kent glanced up and down the street.

A crash and a thud brought his attention back to the shop; lifting his gun in both hands he hurried into the back room. Nothing seemed out of order, until he saw an ironing board upturned, and Tony's legs sticking out from behind a drying rack. His friend lay unconscious on his side, his gun still in his hand. There was nobody else in sight. Kent tried to walk the last few steps to Tony's side, but his legs didn't seem to be working properly. His knees were like jelly, and buckled under him. The last thing he was aware of was Tony's shoe digging into his ribs as he collapsed across his feet.

Consciousness came back slowly. The DEA chief realised that he no longer had a toe digging into his gut, and he wasn't lying on cold concrete. He could smell…leather, and fabric, and flowers… and brandy? He opened his eyes slowly, and found he was sitting in an old red wing chair of soft leather, in a comfortable, book lined room. From the grandeur of the tall windows with their heavy brocade drapes, he concluded that he was in some fine country house. On the low table in front of him was a decanter, and beside it two cut glass brandy balloons. His gun was back in its holster.

He looked around, and became instantly alert; on the sofa opposite, Tony lay pale faced and unmoving, and Kent thought, as he lurched across to him, that there was something wrong about himself passing out last and waking up first.

"Tony. Tony!" There was no response. He put his fingers on his friend's neck; the pulse was slow and lethargic. His chest barely moved. "Tony, wake up. Wake up… come on…" He looked around the room. "What did you give us? What did he breathe? Where are you? Come on… he has scarred lungs… he can't take gas inhalation…" He suddenly knew whose house they were in. "Oscar Sablea… do you want him to die?"

AN: Only checked once for typos… I can check three times and still miss them… sorry…