Thank you all for your wonderful support!
A/N: I don't speak Italian. All errors are Google's fault.
"DiNozzo!" Gibbs cried into the phone. "Tony!"
But the line remained silent; only the movement of rushing air could be heard on the other end.
"McGee! Trace this number now!" Gibbs barked while he held the phone so tightly his knuckles were turning white.
"Already on it, boss." McGee's fingers flew over the keyboard, faster than he knew was possible, while Gibbs continued to yell the Senior Field Agent's name into the handset.
The Lead Agent strained to hear any sounds that would indicate his second-in-command was still alive. After a few tense moments, heavy footfalls and distorted sounds that could only be someone breathing through a mask were heard over the line.
"Target confirmed," a muffled voice came over the line. In the background, a loud collision was followed by a pained gasp for air. Gibbs shoved the phone closer to his ear as if that would somehow amplify the fading voice.
"Motel 21. 5th and Park, Long Island." McGee's voice broke through Gibbs' concentration.
"Ziva, get Metro over there ASAP—be sure they know there's a Federal Agent in distress."
"I am on it, Gibbs," Ziva dashed back to her computer and began trying to contact the Long Island police department.
"McGee—when's the next flight to Long Island?"
"One just left, boss. The next one isn't for another four hours."
"Driving?"
"Just over five hours, boss."
"With me McGee," Gibbs demanded as he stormed up the stairs towards the Director's office. He passed Cynthia's desk with McGee trailing not far behind, threw open the door and marched into the room, interrupting Vance in the middle of a telephone conversation.
"Yes, thank you, sir." Vance paused mid-nod to glare at his unwelcome intruders.
"It's an emergency," Gibbs stated, standing at the front of the oak desk and leaning into Vance's personal space.
Vance gently put the phone back in its cradle and slowly scribbled a few notes on a Post-It before looking up at the older agent.
"It usually is," he sighed, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his massive chair. "What's gone wrong this time? As I recall, you aren't working on any cases at the moment, so this 'emergency' isn't agency related. That could only mean it's personal. Since you and Agent McGee are here, I would guess either Agent David or Agent DiNozzo was in trouble, and since your Senior Field Agent has a knack for getting into…unfortunate…situations, I would say he was the emergency. How am I doing so far?"
"Shoulda stayed in the Marines, Le-on, and one day you could have been an agent like me. McGee, play the call."
McGee shuffled around the Director's desk and shrugged apologetically. With a deep sigh, Vance rolled out of the way and allowed McGee to work at his personal computer.
Within seconds, McGee had pulled up the phone call. While he listened, Vance grabbed an unused toothpick from a side drawer and began chewing on it thoughtfully.
"That's pretty thin, Gibbs. I can't send an army of agents to Long Island because of a phone call."
"What do you want then, Leon? A signed affidavit from the guys who threw that device expressing their sincere intention to harm my agent?"
"That's a bit far for even you, Gibbs. If I dispatched a team every time someone showed up late to work or a coworker heard strange sounds in the background of a call, this agency would never solve any cases. Think about how Miss Scuito spends her off-hours. We don't send the cavalry after her every time one of her friends hears a questionable noise in the background."
"This is DiNozzo we're talking about!" Gibbs raged. "Not some…Ferris Bueller who is looking to cheat some extra vacation time!"
"You actually know who Ferris Bueller is?" McGee asked incredulously.
Vance and Gibbs turned simultaneously to give McGee scalding looks.
"Of course…that's not important now…" he amended, turning back to his keyboard and pulling up the airline's schedule.
"There's not another flight for four hours and a five hour drive is out of the question. DiNozzo needs our help. Now." Gibbs exclaimed, slamming his palm on Vance's desk emphatically.
"What exactly do you want me to do Gibbs?" Vance said, scrubbing his face in a sign of defeat. As much as he differed from DiNozzo, the man was a stand-up, hardworking agent whose track record was almost unparalleled in the field—not that he would ever personally admit that to DiNozzo. While Vance didn't understand half of what spewed from DiNozzo's mouth on a regular basis, the Director knew that honesty was one of the agent's key qualities. The more Vance thought about the situation, the more he was regretting his earlier words; even DiNozzo wouldn't stoop so low to staging an injury to garner a few days extra vacation.
"Get me a ride up there, Leon. Pull some strings. Contact SecNav himself if you have to. My agent is up there, probably injured and possibly fighting for his life."
"I make no promises, but I'll see what I can do," Vance replied, picking up the phone once again.
"That's not good enough," Gibbs responded as he left the room, slamming the door closed behind him. McGee skated through the closing door, avoiding becoming a McPancake by a few short seconds.
"McGee," Gibbs ordered as they descended the staircase, "you pull everything you can about DiNozzo Senior, and I don't just mean the stuff in his file. I want internet searches, MyBook—or whatever the hell you call that thing—conversations, phone calls, credit cards, mortgages, loans, wish lists, favorite restaurants, places he frequents, everything—his childhood Christmas lists if you can find them. If you come up empty, run it again. Get Ziva to help you. Have Ducky take a look at Senior's psych evals from his file—I want to know what kind of a man we are really dealing with here."
"Where are you going, boss?" McGee asked as Gibbs headed toward the elevator.
"To catch a spy."
Gibbs' cell phone rang as he exited the bullpen.
"Gibbs!" he barked into the receiver.
"Jethro. What's eating you?"
"This is a really bad time, Tobias."
"Well, I wouldn't call if it weren't important. Just thought you might need to know what was going on."
"And…" Gibbs asked impatiently.
"The Chiefs of Staff have been in conference for the last hour about the DiNutso Senior situation. Apparently he stole some chip that has the power to temporarily overwrite the satellite controls and allow any John Doe to use them for whatever he wishes."
Gibbs groaned internally at Fornell's explanation. Senior was a wanted fugitive, accused—or possibly guilty—of stealing a military-grade surveillance equipment, and he called his son for help. Gibbs briefly wondered if Tony knew what sort of trouble he would be in for assisting his father, or if Tony even knew the gravity of the situation.
"What did the Chiefs decide?"
"You're not going to like this, Jethro…" Fornell trailed off, delaying the inevitable as long as possible.
"Tobias," Gibbs warned. "This is no time for guessing games!"
"I know that Jethro. I'm just finding the words to tell you this gently. Until evidence proves otherwise, Senior's been declared a national threat. He and anyone who is assisting him just jumped to Number One on the CIA's Most Wanted List. He and DiNutso are wanted fugitives, with orders for immediate termination."
A short Italian man walked into a dark gloomy room, carrying a heavy bucket. He made his way toward the room's sole occupant, a dark-haired man sitting in the lone chair, slouching lifelessly against his bonds.
With an evil grin, the man swung the bucket, dumping its contents on the unconscious man.
Tony gasped in surprise as the ice-cold water struck him and hurled him into awareness. He thrashed against the restraints around his wrists and ankles that kept him bound to the chair but was unable to free himself.
How the hell had he ended up tied to a chair? As he thought about the last events, the memories slowly returned. The hotel…the phone call…the grenade.
The object had exploded sending fog billowing into the room. Senior had thrown himself on top of his son, knocking the cell phone from his grasp in the process. As Tony struggled to drag his father off of him, he noticed a bitter stench dominating the room and quickly discovered it was becoming harder and harder to concentrate. The gas emitting from the grenade was a knockout gas of some sort, his muddled brain managed.
Hearing the door fly open and crash loudly into the wall, Tony dove behind the bed, dragging his father with him.
He fought to formulate a plan, but his mind refused to work properly. He pulled his T-shirt over his face and cupped his hand around his mouth, knowing full-well that this trick would only guarantee him a few more minutes of fresh air. Not more than a few seconds later, Tony decided it would be better to hold his breath, which turned out to be an excellent decision since he appeared to no longer have full control off his arm which drooped limply to the ground.
A blurry mass entered the room with bright flashlights that broke up the murk; they were communicating with each other, but Tony could not understand what they were saying.
He reached for the nightstand, slapping the surface in search of his gun, but his hand was kicked away. Tony looked up to see something that resembled The Blob standing over him with a gas mask secured over his face. Hazmat suits, Tony thought confusedly.
Tony was unable to avoid the heavy boot that collided with his midsection, forcing the fresh air from his lungs. Despite his burning lungs, he delayed breathing the poisoned air as long as possible. But after a while, he couldn't resist any longer and he opened his mouth to breathe in the toxic gas.
"Who the hell are you?" Tony snarled at the men who had drugged and abducted him.
"You are not in a position to ask questions. You will however answer them if you ever want to leave this room," the man replied as he dropped the bucket and stood menacingly in front of the NCIS agent.
"Why am I having déjà vu—that's an excellent movie, by the way…absolutely mind-boggling, Denzel was astounding as Doug Carlin, ATF agent who travels through time to save Claire Kuchever, played by Paula Patton…but, I'm getting off topic."
He cocked his slightly and glanced curiously at the man in front of him. "Why was I referencing Déjà Vu, again? Oh, riiiiiight. I was in this situation last year—captured by Saleem Ulman, leader of a terrorist organization based out of Somalia. He tried his hardest to make me reveal all of NCIS' deepest secrets, but look who's still walking around. I'll give you a hint since you don't look like the brightest light bulb in the lamp factory…It ain't him."
The man stepped in closer and Tony had only a moment to brace himself before a fist slammed into his stomach with incredible force.
"I've been told to expect this sort of behavior from you," the man explained as Tony bent only slightly, trying his hardest to not show weakness in front of his captor. "Our intel reveals you're quite the smart ass. But I won't stand for any of it. One more smart comment and you'll be speaking to your sweet, sweet mother sooner than you expected."
Tony's eyes flashed angrily at the mention of his mother and a string of expletives that gave new meaning to the idiom "swearing like a sailor" passed through his mind; only by a superhuman effort was he able to remain silent and not react to the comment.
"Ah," the man remarked, seeing Tony's struggle to remain calm. "Did I hit a nerve? Your mother was a special person, eh? She meant a lot to you?"
Dammit. This guy was good; he knew exactly which of his buttons to press. Tony took a few deep breaths to calm himself before speaking.
"Let's just keep this conversation between the two of us. Leave the rest of my family out of this." Concern for his father passed fleetingly through his mind, but Tony cast it aside, choosing to first deal with the most immediate threat: this idiot standing in front of him.
"As much fun as it is to watch your squirm helplessly like a caught fish, you are correct. I have to be leaving to attend my daughter's dance recital in the next fifteen minutes, so let's make this quick and painless. You tell us where Atlas is, and you and your father can leave unharmed."
"Is that that guy who's supposed to hold up the world? I never really paid attention when my sophomore English teacher taught the mythology unit. You see, there was this gorgeous girl sitting in front of me. Black hair, lips that would rival Angelina Jolie's, body like a gymnast, and she was so good—"
The man ended Tony's description of the incredibly beauty by backhanding him viciously across the mouth.
"You are running out of time. Where is Atlas?"
"Are you referring to Gunnery Sergeant Bill Atlas? Marine, EOD disposal technician and all-around nice guy? I haven't seen him since our quality bonding time in the sewers. Wonder if he still remembers me…"
The man reared back and punched DiNozzo full in the mouth.
"You have one more chance before I am forced to do something I'm probably going to regret—and by that, I mean, I will regret missing Isabella's recital."
"Isabella?" Tony asked as he spat a mouthful of blood towards the man's designer shoes. "Such a pretty name. Too bad her father's a real bastard who's probably going to get himself killed before her 16th birthday."
The man purpled and he slammed his forearm into Tony's shoulders, knocking the chair backwards. He grinned widely as he heard the hard collision between the agent and the cement floor before sauntering over and placed his foot on Tony's windpipe.
"Maybe a few days without food or water will do you some good. You might be a little more forthcoming when your belly is aching and your throat is burning."
The Italian increased the pressure with his shoe for a second before walking out of the room, leaving Very Special Agent DiNozzo struggling for breath and wondering how he was going to get out this one alive.
In the next room over, Senior had regained consciousness to discover a different Italian crouching in front of him. The elder DiNozzo was bound in the same manner as his son, and was equally unable to free himself.
"DiNozzo," the associate spat. He stood up and drove his fist into Senior's stomach.
"What was that for Montaleone?" Senior panted, staring defiantly at his former acquaintance.
"My wife."
"I had nothing to do with that," Senior responded quickly, trying to avoid a serious confrontation with an old friend.
"Sure you didn't, you merda! I know you and your type."
"That was all a big misunderstanding. I'd swear on my mother's grave I had nothing to do with her life sentence."
The Italian considered the seriousness of the swear before continuing.
"You may not have, but I know for sure you know where Atlas is."
"What lies has Thompson been feeding you? Why would I hide Atlas?" Senior replied incredulously. "I only profit if it makes it safely overseas. You know that!"
"You figlio di una cagna. I have proof!"
Montaleone reached into his pocket and pulled out an iPhone. He ran his thumb across the screen a few times before turning the device around so Senior could watch the video.
"This is Wednesday, taken across the street by Jenkins who was worried about your loyalty to Thompson. It's a good thing he was concerned…"
Senior stared at the iPhone, watching the scene unfold in front of him.
He was walking down the street with a large brown bag dangling from one arm. He was on his way home after a long day of shopping, he remembered.
"DiNozzo!" Senior turned at the sound of his name, seeing Thompson running to catch up with him. Shit! He wasn't supposed to run into Thompson today; the man was supposed to be vacationing in Europe! Senior had just been doing business as the real Anthony DiNozzo, Senior and had none of his fake identification with him. Good thing he'd been well-trained.
"Thompson. What are you doing?" Senior asked, seamlessly slipping into the role of Thompson's friend that he had been playing for the last few weeks.
"Is it wrong to want to visit with a family friend?"
"No," Senior replied. "Where are you off to?"
"Nowhere in particular. Just waiting while Maria shops. I was hoping you might want to grab lunch or something. Hopefully she will be ready for me to pay the bills by then."
"I had other plans, but those can be shifted, I believe."
"That is wonderful. I hear the new Armani on 8th has quite good food."
"Yeah," Senior said with a glance at his watch, "I could use a meal right now as well."
Thompson clasped his arm around Senior's shoulder and herded him off toward the restaurant.
What Senior saw now that he hadn't noticed before was Thompson dropping a small item into his bag. That must have been whatever his men were so anxious to find.
"You have Atlas!" Montaleone screamed. "We searched your home, your car, everywhere and we could not find it. If you bring it to us, we will let your son go."
"That little shit," Senior cried, straining at his bonds in anger. "My own son—that disrespectful, ungrateful, worthless child. He's after it too, going behind my back! You need to trust me on this one: he's a trained federal operative so he's never going to tell you anything. Let me talk to him and I'll get its location; then we can sell it to Thompson's buyer and take a three-week vacation in the Caribbean—how's that sound?"
"How do you know he knows where it is?" Montaleone asked incredulously, doubt written over his entire expression.
With every sentence, more pieces fell into place and his son's actions began to make more and more sense to Senior. "You don't know my son—he was so eager to turn his back on the family. After his mother died, we hardly spoke—he was doing so poorly in school, I had to send him to a military academy just so he'd have a decent change of getting into college, and what does he do? Goes to Ohio freakin' State and throws around a leather ball for four years. He's so eager to make it big in the world, he apparently would sell out his own father. It must have been his mission to find out where it was and to steal it for himself—no wonder he was so eager to continue to help me out even after your friends crashed my Explorer. He's been playing me like a fiddle the entire time. I'm positive he has intel about its location and just needed a way to distract me while he located it."
"That sounds like a stretch," Montaleone responded uncertainly.
"Montaleone, have I ever led you astray?"
"No, but there's a first time for everything. It's my ass on the line if you fail. Thompson's eager to eliminate the two of you once he finds out where you hid Atlas."
"Then it would be to my benefit to extract that information from my son, now wouldn't?"
"I guess."
"Montaleone," Senior invoked, staring the Italian straight in the eye. "I won't let you down."
"You'd better not, or Thompson won't be the one ordering your death." Montaleone reluctantly began to undo the straps that held Senior to the chair.
Senior held out his hand for a gun. "Come on, my deadbeat son's a fed. He's not just gonna open up and spill his innermost secrets to dear old dad without a little persuasion."
"I am counting on you, DiNozzo." Montaleone's hand wavered over the Smith & Weston at his waistband. "There are not enough words to describe the incredible torture you will endure if this plan falls through."
"Just give me the gun, Monty, and we'll be vacationing on the beach surrounded by tan, bikini-clad women sooner than you even thought possible."
Montaleone grinned to himself for a moment before pulling a gun from his waistband. He ejected the magazine and removed all but two bullets.
"You can work with that, can't you?" he challenged as he shoved the magazine back into the grip of the weapon and handed it to DiNozzo Senior.
Senior raised his eyebrows slightly and walked authoritatively into the hallway.
"Which room?"
Montaleone pointed at the one next to Senior's.
Senior threw open the door and marched into the room, sending the two associates, who were in the process of forcing Tony's chair upright, scurrying away.
"Dad! How did you…What are you..." Tony asked confusedly, seeing his father step into the room.
"We have some questions for you, Junior." While he spoke, Senior slid back the chamber and checked to see if there was a bullet present. When he looked back at his son, his eyes were completely devoid of any emotion, as cold and calculating as the eyes of the serial killers or murderers Tony arrested on a daily basis.
"You'll tell us where Atlas is," Senior ordered as he leveled the gun at Tony, "or I'll be forced to shoot you myself."
I hope you enjoyed another facet of Senior's personality. But when push comes to shove, whose side will he take?
Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! :)
