Ziva dropped the box on the table and began taking out the bagged items they had collected from the site of the crash, listing off each one as she grabbed it. "A bottle of beer found in his cup holder, a half-empty roll of mints found under the passenger seat, a map of Virginia and Maryland from his glove compartment, car title and registration, insurance card, little hula girl stuck to his dashboard, iPod found on the floor of the car. This does not include the spare tire and tire iron we found in the trunk, though I very much doubt those have any value to the abductors."

Gibbs looked over the small array of items, lips pursed in confusion. He couldn't imagine which of these things was what the kidnapper was after. "What did you find on his body?"

"Just his keys," she said, handing them over.

The key ring held four keys. One was for his car and they assumed another was for his home. "What are these other two keys for?" he asked.

Ziva studied the smaller two keys. Neither looked like it could be for a car or a building. They looked more like keys used for storage lockers. "Perhaps a gym locker?"

"Two keys for a gym locker?"

Tim reached out and lifted one of the keys. "I think this one is for a safety deposit box, boss. My key looks a lot like that."

"You have a safety deposit box, Probie? What do you keep in there? Your copy of Batman issue #1?"

"McGee, call the surrounding banks, and see if Cpl. Hensen had a safety deposit box in any of them."

"What are you thinking, boss?" Tony asked.

"If Cpl. Hensen was stealing classified information, it's likely he was hiding it somewhere no one could get to it."

Ziva checked her watch. "The man will be calling back in twenty minutes. Do you think we'll be able to put something together before we're told where to make the drop?"

"We'll play it by ear, Ziva."

"Who is playing? And what do our ears have to do with anything?"

"Just go up to Vance's office and make sure they're all set up there."

Tony began repacking the box with the bagged items. "How do you think Palmer's holding up?"

"Palmer may be clumsy and he may not always have tact, but he's an adult and can handle himself. It's not like this is the first time he's gotten himself caught up with a perp."

"Yeah, but getting shot at isn't quite the same as being taken hostage like this."

It wasn't, and Gibbs knew it. He didn't like when his people were threatened—and Jimmy was one of his people, even if he didn't acknowledge it. "The kid's got more gumption than you give him credit for, DiNozzo."

"Sometimes you need more than gumption."

"How about you make yourself useful," Gibbs snapped. "Go see how far along Abby is with Hensen's phone records." He'd put her to work on that, hoping she might figure out who their Marine had been dealing with.

Tony nodded and went off to speak with Abby. Gibbs, in the meantime, grabbed the box and began heading up to Director Vance's office. Their hour was almost up.

"Boss!"

He turned to see Tim racing up the stairs after him. "I called a couple branches of my bank and there was one in Quantico that has a safety deposit box under his name. Should I go check it out?"

Gibbs looked at the clock. He knew he couldn't hand the key over to Tim and risk not having it there when they made the drop. It was possible the kidnapper didn't even know what he was looking for, but Gibbs wasn't going to take that chance. Besides, he had a better idea.

"No, McGee. Come on. I think our dirt bag is due to call."

The MCRT and Ducky were assembled in Vance's office along with the Director and a tech who was there to trace the call. Tim, Tony, Ziva, and Ducky were seated at the conference table while Vance and the tech were situated at his desk. Gibbs was standing, arms folded, and leaning against the door. Slowly, the seconds ticked by on the clock and they all held their breath.

The phone rang.

Vance placed his hand on the phone and took a breath. He and the tech exchanged looks and nodded. Then he picked it up as the tech began the trace. "Director Vance."

"I hope you have a pen and paper ready because I'm not going to repeat this."

Vance grabbed a pen. "Go ahead."

"The items are to be put into a shopping bag and you will mark it with a green Christmas bow. There will be no tracking devices in there, Director Vance. Then you—and you alone— will take the bag to the Crystal City Shops and go up to the food court. You will leave the bag under the bench between the elevators. Then you will walk away, Director Vance. You will not stick around to see who picks up the bag. If you do, or if I see anyone watching the bench, I will kill Mr. Palmer. If anyone follows the person who picks up the bag, I will kill him. If anyone other than you delivers the items, I will kill him. And if you attempt to arrest or detain the person who picks up the package, I will kill him. Is that understood?"

"Yes, it is. NCIS will not interfere. We just want the safe return of our employee. After I make the drop, how will our man be returned to us?"

"Once I confirm that all of the items are accounted for and I have what I want, I will send a call to NCIS, letting them know where you can find him. You have one hour to make the drop. After that, I will lose my patience." He didn't need to elaborate on what would happen if he lost his patience. "Oh, and I'll save you the trouble of tracing this call. I'm at the mall right now and will throw this phone away as soon as I hang up. See you soon." Then, the line went dead.

Vance immediately dialed another number. "Weber, I need you and your team for a ransom drop-off. No, this will be very careful and you will not take anyone down unless I give you the cue. Yes…yes, I'll be down soon."

He hung up the phone and turned his attention to the others. "You got all that, Gibbs?" he asked. "He's obviously not alone. We don't know if he saw your team at the crash site, so I don't want any of you at the drop."

"I wasn't planning on having any of us there."

Vance raised an eyebrow. "But you've got another idea brewing." It was a statement, not a question.

Someone knocked at the door. "Come in," Vance called.

His secretary peeked in her head. "Sir, Miss Abby Scuito here to see you."

Vance nodded. His secretary stepped back and Abby appeared in the doorway, visibly upset by the turn of events. She'd even removed the jingling bells she'd tied into her pigtails that day in an attempt to brighten up NCIS for the upcoming holidays.

"Any leads off Hensen's phone records?" Gibbs asked.

"He called the same number on his cell phone, like, a billion times. Well, maybe not a billion, but enough that it's strange."

"Got a name for the number?"

She frowned. "McGee was right; it was a burn phone. It was purchased a month ago at a convenience store and the guy paid cash. The man who I talked to at the store said he'd send over some video footage, but he's not sure if anything worthwhile will be on it."

Gibbs was not impressed. "That all you have to tell me?"

"No, oh impatient one; there's more. They checked Hensen's car and it was clean. Well, I mean it hadn't been tampered with, not like it was, you know, cleanly or anything. The brakes were fine and so was everything else. It looks like there was no foul play there; he just lost control of his car. If the beer bottle in there is any indication, he probably wasn't sober."

"That still doesn't help us, Abbs."

"What if I told you I've been running prints I pulled from Hensen's car and got a hit?"

That got Gibbs' attention. He nodded, silently urging her to continue.

"There was a pristine thumb print on the backseat passenger-side seatbelt latch. Really beautiful, actually."

"And who did this really beautiful thumb print belong to?"

"Some guy by the name of Butch Stroman. He's been booked a couple of times for selling hot car parts."

"Why does the temperature of the parts matter?" Ziva asked, her brow wrinkled in confusion.

"She means the parts were stolen," Tim explained.

"It's been mostly misdemeanor stuff for him," Abby continued. A slap on the wrist or a fine. The most jail time he did was six months last year."

"If he was sitting in the back while Hensen was driving, it stands to reason there was a third person in the car," Vance commented. "Though, it doesn't mean either of them is involved. Any possibility they might have met some other time, Miss Scuito? Through work or mutual acquaintances?"

She shook her head. "I've checked their histories through the past five years, but I can't find any reasons why Stroman's path would have crossed with Hensen's. If anything, they were probably going through great lengths to hide that they knew each other."

"Abby, do a complete background check on this guy," Gibbs said. "Let me know what you find." She nodded and left to do just that. Gibbs turned to Vance. "I think you'd better get over to make the drop, Leon. Don't want our dirt bag to lose his patience."

Vance nodded. He stood and retrieved the box of things; then, he leveled Gibbs with a look. "And what will you be doing in the meantime?"

"Oh, I'll keep busy," Gibbs assured him. "As soon as we find out where they're holding Palmer, we'll head on over and get him. But I would like your permission to dispatch a second team for another purpose, Leon."

"Sure," he said with a nod. "Granger's team should be available."

"And what can I do, Director," Ducky asked, speaking for the first time in almost an hour. His stomach was churning guiltily; he felt responsible for Jimmy in the same way Gibbs felt responsible for his team.

"Unfortunately, Dr. Mallard, not much at the moment. For now, I suggest you pray we don't need your expertise for anyone other than Cpl. Hensen today."

Come and trim my Christmas tree
With some decorations bought at Tiffany's
I really do believe in you
Let's see if you believe in me
Ba doop be doo

Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing
A ring
I don't mean on the phone
Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight
Hurry down the chimney tonight
Hurry…tonight…

"That was Eartha Kitt singing 'Santa Baby,'" the Radio DJ said after the last note of the song had faded away. "I'm your DJ for the hour, Rockin' Rick, and this is your station for non-stop Christmas music, getting you into the groove for the season. Up next, we have some sentimental favorites for you, including Brenda Lee's rendition of 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree,' coming up after these words from our sponsors."

Jimmy shivered. This place wasn't very warm and the temperature was dropping each minute. He almost wished he'd had the foresight to ask his abductors to build him a small fire before they'd left. Sure, he probably would have died from smoke inhalation, but at least he'd be warm.

Maybe I'll just freeze to death before that bomb goes off, he mused, half-delirious from sheer exhaustion. He wasn't sure which death would be preferable.

He took a deep breath and winced. The pain from being kicked had subsided for the most part, but when he took deep breaths it hurt, further confirming his suspicions that he had at least broken rib.

For half an hour he'd been sitting there, making peace with his fate. He hadn't thought he'd die this young. He was sure he would at least finish medical school before dying. He'd hoped he would have been settled down with a nice girl, maybe have some children. It felt like he'd left so much undone.

It wasn't the dying that really bothered him, though; it was more that he hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to his family and friends. The last time he'd even talked to his mother was a week before. He'd been avoiding her calls all during finals. Now he wished he could have heard her one more time. He closed his eyes and imagined her talking to him, right there.

Jimmy, she would say, you shouldn't avoid my calls. After I spent almost two days in labor with you? I thought I'd raised you better than that.

"Sorry, mom," he muttered sheepishly, despite the fact that she wasn't really there. Even in his imagination, she was the voice of authority. "I was busy with school."

And now look at you, she would continue with a sigh.

"Hey, this isn't my fault. I didn't ask to be taken hostage."

Oh, I know that. But what are you doing about it? You're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself.

He groaned. "Well, what am I supposed to do? I'm not a federal agent. I don't carry a gun! Either way, I was going to die. This is it; it's the end of the road for me."

Now, Jimmy, I know I never raised you to be a quitter!

"I'm not quitting; I'm just accepting my fate."

And what about the poor people who come get you? They haven't a clue that as soon as they open that door they'll be blown to smithereens too. Don't you care about that?

He frowned. That hadn't crossed his mind. Now that he thought about it, he realized there was more than one life on the line here. His own death he could deal with—even if he would have preferred to avoid it longer. Another person's death, though? That didn't sit well with him. Someone who had been sent to rescue him could also die here; several someones, in fact. That was too many deaths.

"But I'm tied up," he bemoaned. "I don't have a cell phone. I don't have anything! What can I do?"

You're a smart boy, Jimmy. I know you'll think of something.

"But—!" He opened his eyes and his words died on his mouth. His mother wasn't really there. He was just talking to himself. She couldn't give him any advice. He would have to figure it out on his own.

"Okay," he said with new found determination, "what would Gibbs do?" Well, that wasn't a completely fair assessment. After all, he was not Gibbs. He wasn't trained for this the way Gibbs and the other agents were. He was all academia. His role in their investigations called for no feats of derring-do. He cut and sliced and diced and offered educated theories; nothing more.

"The rules…Gibbs' rules." Everyone, of course, knew of the fifty rules Gibbs foisted upon his team. No one outside of his team knew all of them, but they caught some here and there, swapped them with one another. He remembered Michelle talking about them. One of them had been something about never being without a knife. He groaned. He would have done well to heed that rule. But he had nothing…nothing with which to cut these bind. All he had were the clothes on his back…

"My glasses!" he exclaimed. How easily he forgets them. One well-placed break and he should have a shard sharp enough to cut through the ropes. He would be practically blind, but it was his only shot at getting out. Carefully, Jimmy leaned his head down as far as it could go. Then, shaking his head, he slowly worked his glasses down, bit by bit, until finally, they fell into his lap. He pushed them a little further out with the toe of his shoe, then, after a short pause of hesitancy, he brought his heel down hard on the right lens. He did this twice; then, he heard the satisfying crunch he'd been waiting for.

The lens broke into two large pieces and a couple of small shards. He kicked the frames to the side and gently placed his foot on top of the pieces of glass. This would be the tricky part. At an excruciatingly slow pace, Jimmy brought his foot and the pieces in toward his body. He had to be a bit limber and lift most of his body up to push the shards beneath him and toward his hands. It was painful, especially with his broken ribs, but he grunted through it. He then carefully lowered his body and searched for the glass pieces. His hands were almost completely restrained, but they finally brushed across the shards. He curled his fingers around it and clutched it tightly in his hand. Then, he began rubbing the sharp edge against the ropes.

It wasn't as easy or as quick as he thought it would be, and he cut his hands more than a few times in the process. But soon, he felt the ropes loosening and he finally managed to squeeze his hands through. His wrists were red and raw, his hands were bleeding, and now he couldn't see as well as he would like to, but he had mobility. It was a step in the right direction.

But now what?

He went to the window and peered out. The snow was falling furiously and he could barely see through the wall of white flakes. How soon until someone got here for him? More importantly, how would he stop them before they opened the door, blowing themselves—and him—into tiny little pieces? He didn't dare try and disarm the bomb himself. Watching a few action movies didn't make him an expert on the subject. With his luck, he'd end up snipping the blue wire when he was supposed to cut the red one.

Jimmy ran his hand along the window. It didn't open. He could break the glass, but even then, he wouldn't be able to fit through the tiny panes. All that would accomplish would be to let more cold air in.

Over one hurdle and he'd hit a brick wall. His spirits deflated once more and he leaned back against the wall, sliding to the floor. He brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, hanging his head down low.

He had tried…but he had failed.