Chapter four: Mind games
The screams tore at her throat like screeching wraiths trying to escape. She wondered how much longer the men could possibly torture her. Part of her willed Gibbs to leave, to escape. At least there was hope that he was alive. But the searing pain of the knife and the blood that blurred her vision made an even larger part of her wish with all her heart that he would save her. She sobbed involuntarily and she did not move from the bed. Her screams had not brought Gibbs to her aid, and it felt like they had been trying for hours. Salvador snorted in disgust at Stefano, "He is smarter then we give him credit for. Either that or he doesn't care about this bitch." He shrugged.
Gibbs pressed his back to the wall and leaned his head backwards, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Just for a moment. Abby's screams felt like knives passing through his chest. With each one he felt himself drawn to her. He opened his eyes and let his mind switch into marine mode. This was all a trap, all to get him to come to her. He would not allow it, they would not kill her if he was still on the base, or if they thought he was. He felt as though it were his only choice to believe that thought.
He scooted down hallways, avoiding greasy guards. The yellow lighting cast shadows that reminded him of his days on the submarine. Those were not pleasant memories. He needed a weapon, needed to find a solitary guard. A lone man stood in front of a green door, poorly painted. Gibbs surveyed the scenario, two open sides, attacking the man would have to be a quick movement from his left, of he would leave his back exposed. The death would have to be silent so as not to attract attention. His mind calculated speed, force, angle and direction. His feet responded accordingly. Gibbs brought his elbow down into the mans clavicle, before he even knew what hit him. He scooped his gun from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. Then, grabbing the man by his shirt he dragged him into his former hiding place. Gibbs took a quick look around the corner to ensure his maneuver had not been detected. The hallway seemed to be clear, and now he had a weapon. There was only one problem. Two he corrected himself. The first, the weapon was loud so he would have to make every bullet count. Secondly, there was only one of him, and goodness knew how many dirty sawn-off shotgun-toting men.