Author's Note:

Hello all! Obviously it's been a while since I've updated this particular story, but I finished my other big project so this one has my complete attention! At first I thought it might be just a couple of drabbles, but it's turning into a much bigger thing. I'm thinking international saga now, as per Tony and Ziva's orders. Any complaints? There will be more than enough TIVA to go around, let me assure you. ;) I can't pass up an opportunity like this one.

So, if you're all still interested, here it is!

Chapter Four

"Goodbyes"

"How much?" I ask, shocked. Surely Brody must be joking.

"One hundred and fifty thousand," he repeats. "American cash."

"You cannot be serious," I whisper savagely, doing my best to hide my conversation from the people moving on either side of me. "I cannot come up with those kinds of funds on such short notice."

"Try."

"Brody!" I exclaim desperately, "We are discussing a man's life. There must be something else I can… accomplish in return. It will—what is the word—'tide' you over until I can produce the remainder of the money."

"Like what?" he asks, and it is not difficult to find the curiosity in his voice.

"A man like you is never short of enemies," I point out candidly, secretly amazed that I am offering this kind of service. "Surely you could do with one or two less in exchange for my friend's life."

"Oh, no," he says, laughing. "Do not tell me you're becoming an assassin for hire!" His laughter slows and comes to a stop before his voice gets low. "This man means something to you, doesn't he?"

I sigh, and my answer is simultaneously simple and the most complex thing I have ever experienced.

"Yes."

"Then I'll tell you what, Ziva," he starts and I hold my breath in anticipation, "If you can get me seventy-five thousand of it beforehand, I will let you repay the other half once your friend has arrived in the U.S. Because you are my friend, I will do this for you."

"Brody," I exclaim, thankful beyond any of my wildest dreams. "I cannot tell you what this means to me." I clear my throat, suppressing my urges to gush at him. "I can have it for you by tonight."

"We have a deal, then," he says. "I'm sure you know where to meet?" He laughs. "After so much time shared between us, it would be hard not to."

"I remember," I reply, "Perfectly."

"Until nightfall then, Ziva darling," he says and I hear the phone disconnect.

-----

I wander around Tel Aviv for a little while, occasionally ducking through an alley or into a crowd of people in the hopes that I'm just another nameless face to anyone who might be paying attention. I keep an eye out for anyone I recognize, but I don't hold much stock in my ability to spot a potential Mossad-trained assassin. It was pure luck that I'd made it out of Ziva's apartment alive, and this is one piece of luck that I'm not feeling too willing to push.

The sun is starting to go down as I reach the end of my road. Literally. The road dead ends at a small temple that's seen its fair share of death and destruction. I don't feel qualified to venture a guess at its age, but I know that it's older than me and younger than Moses. Something about it draws me in, though, and I find myself donning a yamaka and walking inside.

No one is inside, strangely enough. I suppose I should be grateful, but an empty church in such a devout nation seems out of place. I find a seat near the front of the temple and sit down, listening to the aged wood creak in protest of my weight. It's almost impossible to keep my mind from wandering, no matter how hard I intend to try. Too much has happened in too little time, and it's going to take more than I have available to keep the demons at bay this time around. They're always just around the corner, waiting to jump out and grab me by the throat.

For some reason, I'm not sure how it happens, but I almost start to pray. Something about being in an old temple in Israel has its affect on me, and I'm leaning my head down to ask for strength—which I haven't done in years, since Catholicism had been beaten into me with the worn end of a ruler—but the moment never comes. My thoughts are interrupted by my phone vibrating against my hip. I jump, startled, and then curse my own paranoia. But then again, is it really paranoia if there really are Israeli super-assassins out to get you?

I digress.

"Yeah," I reply, whispering despite the fact that no one else is here.

"Where are you?" Ziva asks.

"With God."

"More specifically?"

"Small temple on the south edge of the city," I reply, surveying my surroundings. "White-washed steps, and a small herb garden around the side of the building."

"I know the one you mean," she says, her voice devoid of any emotion at all. "I will stop in front of the temple in ten minutes. Be prepared to leave." She pauses. "Do not make me come looking for you."

"Copy that," I say dryly, and then our connection is severed. I cradle the phone in my hands, and my internal countdown starts.

In ten minutes I'll leave this temple. In a few hours, I'll leave this country. In a few days, I'll either be dead or back in the States. Either way, nothing is ever going to be the same for me again. It's an idea that I've contemplated numerous times over the last few hours, and I just can't seem to shake it out of my head. It's got me in a choke hold, and I'm powerless against it. I lean my head against the rickety bench in front of me, giving myself the temporary indulgence of wishing it was all over.

It feels like seconds that I had my eyes closed, but a voice starts invading my thoughts and my brain burns rubber trying to figure out what's going on. It takes a minute, but I realize that the voice is calling my name. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and I flinch away from it, before looking up to find Ziva's intense stare. The expression she wears is something that can only be described as heart-stopping worry, which worries me in turn. As soon as I meet her eyes she exhales loudly and sets her mouth in a grim line.

"Your head was down," she said. "I thought you…"

She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to; we both know exactly what she was thinking.

"Sorry," I reply simply, knowing that anything else would be unnecessary at this point.

"We need to leave," she says sternly and I nod. I follow her out of the temple without another word, climbing into the tiny electric car waiting for us at the curb. I barely have time to buckle up before she speeds off, throwing me back against my seat and making me curse under my breath. For all her years in America have done for her, she hasn't learned to drive any better than when she first arrived. Part of me wants to make a comment, but the smarter side of my brain convinces me that I'd be better off keeping my mouth safely shut.

"Nice car," I comment offhandedly, gripping the handlebar on the roof of the car. "Where did you get it?"

"Stole it," she replies and her tone doesn't leave any room for further questions.

The sun is dying as we leave Tel Aviv behind us, sending a dark red streak blazing across the sky. As I look at it the first thing to come across my thoughts is the line from Lord of the Rings, the one about a red sky meaning that someone was going to die. Or was it that they already had? I can't remember now. In any case, the omen is an ominous one. Unconsciously, I'm hoping that I'm not going to be the designated corpse at the end of the night.

Ziva seems strangely calm in the driver's seat, even when she's driving like a lunatic. Her dark eyes are focused solely on the road, occasionally looking up to check the rearview mirror. I stare openly, knowing already that she's going to notice and call me on it. I study the dark hair pulled up by a rubber band and the makeup that smudges her already striking eyes. Next my eyes find the steadily rising bruises on her jaw, and I grit my teeth. It horrifies me that I did that to her, no matter how she justified it at the time. I hate that I did something like that to my partner… to the woman I love.

I meant it, of course, when I told her that. The confession had been building for a while now, and I only chose to let it escape when I thought I was going to die with that particular secret. I love her comical grip on American idioms, and I love the way her eyes narrow when she really, really wants to hit me. Sometimes I make her mad just to see that look. I obsess over her safety constantly, which is why we're here in the first place. I almost wonder if it was wrong going to her apartment that night, but I can't convince myself of anything close to that. If Michael hadn't killed her, her father would have. If there's one thing I know, it's that.

No, I think. I did the right thing.

For once.

"You are tense," she says stoically, as though she was commenting on the weather or the state of the roads in scenic Tel Aviv.

"So are you," I reply and she leaves the subject alone.

She goes back to her driving, and I go back to my thinking. I have too many thoughts needing attention, all of them clamoring for time that I can't give them. Survival should really be the only thing on my mind right now, but my brain has never been that good at prioritizing. The only thing on my mind now is if I'm ever going to see Ziva again. She promised to get in touch once she felt it was safe, but did she mean it? I don't want to imagine my life without her, but I never wanted to live my life on the run, either.

My eyes stay on the road as my thoughts turn riotous, rebelling against me and making me anxious. Light flickers into my eyes and I blink, shocked at the sudden intrusion. I put my eyes on the side mirror of the car, and find exactly what I'm looking for. It only takes me a moment to pick up the headlights behind us, and I study them for a few miles before mentioning them to Ziva.

"I think we're being followed," I mention offhandedly, but Ziva doesn't seem bothered. "Friends of yours?"

"Friends of yours," she corrects. "It is most likely Gibbs, ensuring your safety."

"Gibbs isn't a friend of yours anymore?" I ask candidly. "Since when?"

"He no longer trusts me," she says quietly, her eyes softening. "I do not blame him."

"Did he say that?" I ask, shocked that Gibbs would go back on something like his trust in Ziva. Once Leroy Jethro Gibbs made up his mind, his mind was made up. No exceptions.

"He did not have to," she replies. "He will most likely tail us until he knows you are safe, and then return to Tel Aviv to collect the director and leave the country."

"Why wouldn't he trust you?" I ask, pressing the matter probably more than I should.

"He overheard my father's orders to kill you," she says acidly, the words hanging violently in the air between us. "What reason would he have to trust me still?"

"Did he hear you save me, too?" I ask pointedly. She has to know that none of her previous actions matter to me. "Ziva, you're risking everything to get me out of here. Gibbs knows you. He wouldn't just write you off."

"I almost murdered the closest thing Gibbs has to a son, Tony," she fires back. "If that does not convince him of my betrayal, then nothing will. I no longer deserve his trust after what I have done to you, and to the team."

"You're saving my life," I insist, "And I can assure you right now, you can do that whenever you damn well please."

"Enough!" she cries suddenly. "I do not wish to discuss this anymore." He whips her head over to face me, and it's not hard to notice the flush in her cheeks. Emotions are high, and I decide to leave the matter of Gibbs' trust alone for the time being. She's under enough stress as it is, and I don't want to add to it.

"What about you?" I ask for the second time today. "What's going to happen to you?"

"I will face my father and suffer the consequences," she says as casually as she would if she'd been mentioning inviting him over for lunch.

"What are the consequences?" I ask, terrified of what she'll be returning to.

"We will see," she says, her voice tight. Apparently we're terrified of the same thing. "We are getting close."

She signals once to turn left, but we never turn. It occurs to me that she's signaling for Gibbs to let lost, and—much to my surprise—he does. The headlights pull a hard left and disappear, lying in wait for the time they can jump into action. According to Ziva's logic, they'll be following me next. The comfort I find in knowing that Gibbs has my six is indescribable, and it gives me back the little bit of optimism I've been too afraid to feel for the last few hours. I like to believe that Gibbs wouldn't let me get killed; not unless he's the one doing it, anyway.

The road turns rocky the farther we go out, shaking the car. It doesn't help with Ziva's driving, and I start to wonder if I'll even make it out of the car alive… let alone out of the country.

Headlights come into view as soon as the lights behind us disappear. I study them for a few seconds, and I finally make out two large military-grade humvees. The desert camouflage makes them blend into the tall rock formations around them, but they're easily distinguishable once you get close enough to make them out. We finally pull to a stop around the time I can recognize the figures in front of the vehicles as ridiculously big men. One smaller man is in the middle, smiling wildly, flanked with four men who could very easily be linebackers. They're all wearing sour expressions, save for the smaller man, who's looking like he just won the lottery. As far as I can tell, he must be in charge of this particular outfit.

"Out of the car," Ziva says harshly, leaving the car running since she doesn't have a key with which to turn it back on; she must have hotwired it. I follow her orders and climb out, watching as she reaches into the backseat and pulls out a small black duffle bag. She leads the way into the middle of the group, her face illuminated by the lanterns two of the men held in their hands.

"Ziva!" the smaller man cries ceremoniously, stepping forward to kiss both sides of her face. I ignore my slight jealousy and stay still. "I've missed you, darling. The spy game has been so lonely without my favorite femme fatale."

Ziva gives him a wry smile; apparently they're friends.

"And of course you look stunning, as usual," he adds but it doesn't take him long to figure out that Ziva's not in the mood for flattery. He nods at the bag in Ziva's hand. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Seventy-five thousand American," she replies and my jaw almost hits the ground. "I will get you the other half when I receive word that he has returned to America safely."

One hundred and fifty thousand? Jesus!

Of course my first thought is absolute, mind-altering shock when Ziva hands him the bag. That reaction is quickly followed by the need to tell her that I'll pay her back, but it's ridiculous. It's not like I can just run over to the ATM and pull out a small fortune. Honestly, I'm not even sure I have it to give her. I'd have to sell a few organs on the black market, not to mention my beloved car. It occurs to me just how much she's sacrificing for me—ungodly amounts of money aside—and I make myself a silent promise that I'll make it up to her someday. I don't know how, but I will.

The man opens the top of the bag and rifles through the cash. My mind is still trying to process just how much money she's forking over when the man closes the bag and tosses it over to one of his surly henchmen. The entire scene would have been hilarious if the money going back and forth between the players wasn't to keep me breathing. The duffle bag is placed in the back of one of their giant trucks and locked safely away, the man who put it there returning with another larger bag. He throws it at me with no warning, both of my arms reflexively rising up to catch it. My left arm screams in protest and I have to bite my bottom lip from yelling out in pain. Ziva looks over at me and I nod, telling her that it's fine.

I let the bag fall to the ground and then look inside, finding American Marine fatigues in the same desert camouflage that covers their vehicles. Along with the clothes is a passport and fake driver's licenses with a picture of a man looked very much like me. If I didn't know better, he could be a brother. It shocks me that they went into such detail.

"John Cleveland," I read aloud from the paperwork. "I'm headed back home from a tour in Iraq."

"Happy trails, soldier," the smaller man says with a smile, giving me a half-hearted salute. "Your service to your country has been commendable." He turns to Ziva. "The American military uniform should insure that he's left well enough alone. In the current political climate, no one particularly feels like inciting the wrath of the new Roman Empire."

"Rightly so," she replies solemnly. "Where will he be going?"

"We're going to get him into Cairo by train tonight," he starts, pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lighting it up. "Tomorrow morning, a cargo plane will be leaving for Spain. Once the… cargo is unloaded in sunny Seville the plane will depart for a private airfield in Virginia." He takes a deep pull from the cigarette, and lets the smoke out through his nose. "He is from D.C., yes? It is the best we could do on such short notice."

"Cargo?" I ask. "What kind of cargo?"

"Curious, aren't we?" he asks, facing me with an amused smile on his face. "I feel I should warn you, soldier: curious men don't survive in the Middle East." He grins. "Not long, anyway."

"I can take a hint," I reply sarcastically.

"Go on and change into your uniform, then," he orders, nodding toward the humvees. "Ziva and I have a few things to discuss before you begin your journey home."

I pick up my clothing, however reluctantly, and then head toward the back of the little encampment. I feel the other men's eyes on me as I move, and I'm starting to wonder if this is a good idea. Ziva trusts these people and usually that's good enough for me, but her taste in company hasn't been the best lately. That and it's not hard to believe that her father would have gotten to these people first, whoever they are. The Deputy Director of Mossad has more than his fair share of methods to keep something like this from happening. But, since I trust her with my life, I do as I'm told.

It takes me longer than usual to dress with only one good arm, to say nothing of the millions of buttons that military uniforms seem to need. Somehow, the fatigues are a perfect fit. Ziva must have been very descriptive in her information about me. I lace up the sand-colored boots I'm given and then rejoin the group, tucking my paperwork into the breast pocket of my jacket. Ziva is listening intently, nodding her head occasionally. She looks up at me as I come back into view but the glance lasts only a moment before her attention is back on the man who's the ringleader of this particular circus. I stand to her right, staying silent as they continue their conversation in Hebrew. Finally Ziva turns to me, not quite meeting my eyes.

"You will leave with these two men and they will drive you to a train a little farther south than Jerusalem," she instructs robotically as though reciting the direction from a couple of cue cards. "From there you will go to Cairo, and proceed to continue the trip as Brody has mentioned."

Brody, I think, taking note of his name. She clears her throat and looks up at me, her molten brown eyes shining in the warm light of the lanterns.

"You should go," she says and only someone who knows her as well as I do could have noticed the momentary break in her voice. She casts her eyes downward, and I take this as a cue to say my farewells. My heart is racing as I step forward, using my finger to tilt her chin upward.

"Thank you," I say solemnly, hoping that she realizes just how much I mean this. "Remember the promise you made me, okay?" When she doesn't reply, I refresh her memory. "You said you would find me when it was safe."

"Yes," she says noncommittally, which scares me. It's fairly obvious that she has no further comment on the matter, and so I leave it alone and hope for the best.

"Goodbye, Ziva," I say, cupping the back of her neck in my hand. For a moment, as I'm focusing on the tears building up in her eyes, I think I might kiss her. I think she knows it, too, because a quick shake of her head tells me that it's not a good idea in the present company. Instead I lean forward and press a kiss to her brow. Her skin is warm, and I can just make out the subtle spice of her shampoo. I feel her hand over my heart for just a moment, and then the moment is gone.

"Shalom, Tony," she says softly and I'm pulled away. Two huge men on either side of me are herding me along to the humvees, showing little or no compassion for the broken arm that they probably don't know I have.

I spare one last look at Ziva as I climb in the back seat, taking note of her reddened face and the single tear running over her left cheek. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that this may be the last time I see her. I burn the image into my mind then, promising myself that I won't forget it as long as I live—no matter how long that might be.

Then the humvee roars to life and I close the door behind me, not daring to turn back as it lurches into motion. The man in the driver's seat mutters something it what might be Hungarian before looking briefly at a map. The other one tells me in halting English that I should buckle up and I do so, my mind a million miles away. I close my eyes and pray for sleep to take me as I leave Tel Aviv—and Ziva—behind.

A/N: Wow. I hate separating them like this. I'm pretty sure I'm dying inside. =/