Disclaimer : Anything you recognize is still owned by CBS. This is purely for fun. I make no money.
Warnings : Rated T for violence and language.
Author's Note : Thanks to everyone who read, favorited and followed this story so far. Many, many thanks to those of you who have left reviews. The amount of support is incredible and makes all the hard work worthwhile.
If you're wondering where Tony is, we'll see him next chapter.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
3:56pm – Capitol Hill – Washington, DC –
"Wait up, sir! Please!" Kenji yells, the words coming between his strident breathes. "I'm coming!"
Gibbs glances back, finds the younger agent's red face halfway down the Capitol steps. He doesn't the time to wait for Kenji to catch up. They have no idea when the meeting will end, if it hasn't already. With the shake of his head, Gibbs presses onward, bounding up the last flight of steps. He whips past the white marble walls and the lobbyists plying lawmakers with lavish promises of donations and industry support.
Inside the building, it's dark and cool, a perfect hideaway to the summer heat and governmental ethics.
He pauses to catch his breath and survey the interior. In front of him, the security line snakes through three rows of velvet ropes straight to the double glass doors. Tourists stand like cattle on their way to slaughter, waiting for the hunched and wrinkled security guards to check their identification. Just off to the left, a man in a suit checks passes, letting some through without incident - and without waiting.
Gibbs reaches into his pocket, fingers the spot where his badge used to be.
I can't get through with just an NCIS visitor's pass.
Just when he is about try, Kenji bursts through the door. Wheezing loud enough to draw the line's attention, he glances around until he finds Gibbs. Relief floods over his tight features. He quickly rushes to Gibbs' side, then doubles over, leaning on his knees.
"Thanks – for – waiting, sir. I – " he hacks, struggles for a deep breath " – appreciate it. I – "another cough makes him sound like he's dying "- left my inhaler at the office again..."
Gibbs jerks his head towards the line. "I need you to get us through security."
Kenji flinches, shooting Gibbs a sideways look. Once he realizes the reply isn't a joke, he straightens up and adjusts the lapel on his suit jacket. With a grim nod, he retrieves his badge and strides over to the young security guard. As Gibbs follows, he pulls out the visitor's pass he 'borrowed' from NCIS. It's the closest thing he has to his old credentials.
When they reach the guard, they both hand over their information.
Towering over Kenji, the guard takes in the sweat cascading down the agent's ruddy cheeks. "So how's the weather?"
Kenji sweeps the perspiration into his hair, making it stand at a weird angle. "Hot."
The guard gives a half-nod and a laugh. "Okay, well, you're good to go, Agent Suzuki. But Mr. Gibbs, I'm afraid you'll need to go through the regular line. I can't accept this – " he flicks the flimsy laminated paper with his fingers " – since it isn't officially from any agency."
Gibbs gestures to Kenji. "I'm with him."
"Yes," the younger agent explains. "Former Special Agent Gibbs retired in May, but he is back on a limited capacity to help NCIS with a case. We didn't have time to issue temporary credentials since it's a matter of - " he steels himself for the lie " - national security."
"Oh, so he's a consultant?" Gibbs and Kenji share a look, then both of them nod. "Wow! That must be pretty sweet. Tell me, Mr. Gibbs, how's the pay?"
He shrugs. "I'll let you know as soon as I find out."
"What? You're working for NCIS and they're not even paying you? I thought retirement would be all about private jobs and living off your pension." The guard cocks an eyebrow, shakes his head. "This must be one heck of a case for you to donate your time."
Gibbs just glares at him until Kenji asks: "Are we clear to go through?"
"Yeah, yeah, oh yeah." The guard stumbles as he pulls back the rope. "Enjoy your visit to the Capitol, gentlemen."
"Where's the press conference on military spending?" Gibbs asks as he and Kenji head through the check-point.
"Room B-46, southwest corner of the building. But – " the guard checks his watch " – it's supposed to end in a few minutes. I doubt you'll make it over there in - "
Without waiting for the guard to finish, Gibbs bolts in the direction he points. Behind him, he hears Kenji offer his thanks to the guard and an exasperated sigh. Then his dress shoes slap on the marble floor as the agent struggles to keep up. His consistent wheezing lets Gibbs knows that Kenji's still alive back there...and somehow, managing to not fall behind.
Gibbs sprints past the tourists who admire the artwork of old masters on the walls underneath the dome and its mosaic ceilings. But he doesn't bother to take in the sights, just keeps running until the hallway dead-ends and he hangs a left, leading them deeper into the Capitol. As he rushes towards the back of the building, the numbers painted on the wood doors grow sequentially higher. When a large group of people with camera equipment amble past, Gibbs figures the conference must have just finished.
Only a few more doors pass until he reaches a door labeled B-46 in black, block lettering. He slides to a stop just as two men in Navy dress whites exit. One of them wears a Lieutenant's uniform, while the other wears ribbons and four stars emblazoned on his chest.
Admiral John McGee.
Gibbs can't believe how much Tim resembles the man until their eyes meet. While his youngest agent's gaze radiates kindness, his father's is devoid of any emotion. The look sends a chill down Gibbs' spine. His son is missing, but Gibbs wouldn't know it by looking at him.
Maybe he doesn't know what happened to McGee yet.
The Lieutenant steps forward, putting his body in between Gibbs and John.
"Excuse me, sir, can I help you?" he asks, his tone betraying the question.
"I need to speak to the Admiral," Gibbs replies.
"You just missed the press conference, sir. I'm sorry." He opens the planner in his hands. "If you'd like to make an appointment, I can set one up for you. As you can imagine, the Admiral is a very busy man."
Gibbs shifts to reclaim John's stare. "It's about his son."
But John doesn't move, just says: "Lieutenant, I'll meet you back at the office."
"But sir, you have a meeting in – "
"Then cancel it, Patrick."
"Uh – " the Lieutenant's eyes dart between John and Gibbs " – yes sir, I'll see you back at the office. What would you like me to do about the rest of your day?"
"Clear it."
"Sir, yes, sir." He gives an obedient nod. "I'll send the car when you're ready."
The Lieutenant shifts his weight, lingers for a moment. Then without another word, he strides down the hallway… right past a red-faced Kenji, who shuffles forward with his arms hugged tightly to his chest. Gibbs holds his hand up, stopping the younger agent several yards away. Breathing hard, he slumps against the wall, then slides to the floor. His gasping breaths echo through the cavernous hallway.
Squaring his shoulders, Gibbs studies John's face. The deep creases on the Admiral's forehead and between his brows tell of a life spent in deep melancholy. His sandy hair is immaculate despite the hat that rests under his right arm. His stance is as rigid and unyielding as Gibbs'.
Eventually, Kenji pushes to his feet and yells, "Excuse me, sir, but did you find out whether he knows anything about Agent McGee?"
Something that resembles a snort leaves John. "My son gets abducted and this is the best NCIS can do? A washed up special agent and – " he jerks his head to where Kenji leans against the wall for support "- that guy? It's good to see how high Timothy ranks on their priority list."
Rage courses through Gibbs' veins, red-hot and electrifying. He flexes his hands into fists, feeling his muscle beg for their first strike in years. John doesn't move, doesn't even flinch. He just jerks his chin at Gibbs, almost egging him on. But the former agent stops himself, grinds his teeth instead.
We're wasting precious time.
So he jabs his finger toward Kenji. " 'That guy' spent four years as an information analyst for the CIA before he joined NCIS. Believe me, you want him helping us to find your son. McGee might be the best one for the job, but Suzuki's a damn good second."
John shrugs, unconvinced. "And what about you, Former Agent Gibbs? What do you bring to the table?"
"I won't rest until I bring him home alive."
The silence stretches as John clenches his jaw. "Timothy wouldn't even be in this predicament, if it weren't for you." His features twist in disgust, his tone growing more acidic. "He was supposed to join the Navy right out of high school, but his mother and I let him indulge his Ivy League fantasy with MIT. Then it was Johns Hopkins. As if that wasn't enough, he spent three years wasting away as a case agent in Norfolk. I'd just convinced him to enlist when you scooped him up and made him a field agent. Did you know that he's the first McGee in five generations not to join the Navy?" His eyes narrow at Gibbs. "Instead of serving his country, he runs around Washington, playing cops and robbers. And now, this..."
Gibbs shakes his head, crosses his arms. "He deserves to live out his dream, not yours."
"And do you think that includes being taken hostage?"
"It doesn't matter." Just as John starts to reply, Gibbs blurts out: "Your son's going to die unless you help us. Is that what you want?"
John steps back, surprise passing over his face. "Of course not." He lets out a laugh, sick and strangled. "I want Timothy home alive as much as you do. Even though we aren't close, he's still my son…what do you think I'm trying to do?"
"Right now, - " Gibbs eyes him carefully " - I don't know."
"I'm doing everything they tell me to. Keep up appearances, send the ransom and wait for instructions."
Gibbs' blood turns to ice. "You already sent the money?"
"Only half. They said, 'half up front, half on delivery.' The e-mail said it keeps everyone honest. Who am I to argue? It's not like I have a lot of bargaining power." He shakes his head, licks his lips. "I don't think these men are amateurs."
"That's because they aren't. But why didn't you report it to NCIS?"
"Because I was explicitly told not to contact your agency or they'd give me directions to Tim's body." John checks back on Kenji, then says quietly: "You had children once, Gibbs. You would do - have done - everything for them, am I correct?"
Crossing his arms tighter, Gibbs narrows his eyes. "This isn't about me. It's about McGee."
They square off for long beats until John relents: "Then tell me how you plan to bring Timothy home. Alive."
Taking a step back, Gibbs presses his lips together. His mind races through options and scenarios as he starts to pace around the hallway. Abductions were never his forte; too many variables and players on a deadline. Give him a murder and he could doggedly hunt dowm every lead to guilty party. But abductions made his stomach churn. One misstep and the victim ended up in the morgue.
He scrubs his face with his hands, trying to chase away the images of Tim on Ducky's slab.
"We let NCIS handle their investigation while we – " Gibbs considers who he's dealing with " – we follow the instructions. Do you know where the meeting is?"
John shrugs. "I haven't gotten the e-mail yet. But if that's the plan, then there might be a problem."
"What's that?" Gibbs asks, glancing over his shoulder.
Dropping his gaze to the floor, John traces his fingers along his ribbons. "I already liquidated most of my assets to pay the first half of the ransom. I don't know if I'll be able to get enough for the second. My financial adviser is trying to access my retirement, but those accounts have rules and regulations. They're more subject to scrutiny. So I made other arrangements, just in case."
Gibbs heads over, features tight. "What do you mean?"
"That's my business, Gibbs. A man protects his family, regardless of the costs. You of all people should be able to understand that." John looks up with a glare that rivals the fury in Gibbs'. "We work together for the meet-up so we can cover all angles. What I've set in motion is already done and I will not stop it. You let that play out on its own and don't ask questions." The words hang as John extends his hand. "Do we have a deal?"
Considering his lack of options, he shakes it. As he debates how to uncover John's contingency plan, Gibbs says: "Done. Now, what's the amount of money you need for the rest of the ransom?"
John looks away, his cheeks blanching. "Just under half a million. Cash."
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
4:32pm – Unknown Place –
Soft, comfortable, that's the first thing Tim feels as consciousness slowly returns. It's almost like being encased in a cloud. He doesn't get a chance to enjoy it before his head begins to pound. A moan escapes his throat, but dies in his mouth.
Something – he works his tongue around – something is in his mouth. He reaches to push it away, but he can't move. He jerks on his wrists, not surprised to feel the plastic rip into his raw flesh again.
His eyes crack for a quick survey: floral print duvet, cheap wood sidetable and an alarm clock that flashes midnight. Through his blurry vision, he can almost discern another other bed on the opposite side of the room. It looks like its piled high with weapons…or one of his captors is taking a nap. He closes one eye, squints, but it doesn't bring anything into closer focus. His vision still swims with brilliant, hazy squiggles.
Since he doesn't know what's there, he just lies still, feigning sleep. Even though his body doesn't move, his mind races as fast as his heart.
Where the hell am I?
He pulls a deep breath, catches the scent of industrial bleach and mildew.
Start with something you can feel, touch…just like Gibbs and Tony always said.
He hazards another slit-eyed glance. With his eyesight slightly more focused, he thinks he makes out a television sitting on a plywood dresser. Underneath the garble of the talk show, he manages to pick up Dozer's whispers and the sound of someone typing. That's a noise that he'd recognize anywhere.
They're still here and we're in a hotel room.
He squints at the clock, –
How long was I out?
-but he realizes that the numbers haven't changed. They still flash midnight.
It could be anytime. I could be anywhere…
Panic catches in his throat, bringing bile to his tongue. He dry-heaves into the gag. Even though his stomach's empty, even though there's nothing to bring up, the nervous organ still makes itself known. He coughs, trying to slow his breathing. If he vomits, he's as good as dead…
The pile of equipment jumps off the adjacent bed, rushes over. So it was a person...
Hobgoblin blurs into focus. Just as Tim coughs again, he yells: "He's going to puke! Grab the trashcan."
There's a flurry of activity above him as Tim lies there, begging his stomach to stop. But it doesn't, it rolls around in his abdomen, bouncing off his ribs and other organs. Just as the vomit rises, Hobgoblin yanks the gag out of Tim's mouth and pushes the agent to the side of the bed. A strong hand immobilizes him as he lurches, bringing up everything and nothing. He hasn't eaten since Tony made him stop for doughnuts on their way back from lunch yesterday. Once his stomach is empty, Hobgoblin releases his shoulder, lets the agent roll away from the vile stench.
But they don't leave him alone; Maui eases him up and forces a water bottle to his lips. The cold liquid chases away the horrible taste of terror and yesterday's Boston Creme. When it runs dry, Tim presses his lips together, swallows hard.
"Thank you," he whispers.
Maui cracks a smile, nods.
Something about the entire exchange feels so alien. Hostage and captor sharing a moment of kindness, reminding each other of their humanity. Emptiness blossoms in Tim's gut, threatening to swallow him. The smallest mercies cut the deepest, telling him that he probably shouldn't wish death on his captors. Maybe – just maybe – they should all get to go home alive, but with some in the back of a squad car.
When Maui moves away, Tim gets a better view of the hotel room.
It's a standard, albeit rundown fare: two double beds, small chipped wood table with warped chairs and peeling wallpaper. Stanford and Dozer are at the table, examining something on the laptop screen. As he points to the screen, Dozer makes a notation on something that might be a map.
The old ray-tube television plays a talk-show that Tim doesn't recognize, but holds Hobgoblin's interest quite effectively. He glances past all of it, finds the exit several yards away. It isn't far, but with his legs zip-tied together it might as well be a football field – or ten – away.
I'm not getting out of this anytime soon. Maybe it's okay to wait for an opening.
With a sigh, Tim focuses on the television, trying to follow his own advice. On screen, women present unattractive babies and fight with even more unattractive men about their paternity. The show bleeds into another with a different hosts and even more distasteful guests. Just when Tim has had enough, a commercial for used cars plays. The dealer, dressed as Uncle Sam, struts around the set, pointing to overpriced, rusted-out models.
"We've got the best prices in the City of Brotherly Love," he promises with a wink.
Tim's breath hitches.
What the hell am I doing in Philadelphia?
But he doesn't have time to muse about his unexpected road trip. When the talk show credits play, Hobgoblin shifts from his spot on the other bed so he can face Tim. He gives the hostage a long, cold stare.
"So are you ready to go to home, Agent McGee? It must be pretty exciting."
Tim swallows audibly, but doesn't respond.
This obviously isn't his home, never has been and never will be. They must have another reason for bringing him all the way here from Washington. One that he doesn't want to think about.
"Don't start, Hob," Dozer warns, glancing up from his task. "This is almost over."
"For who? For him – " Hobgoblin points at Tim, then gestures to the group " - or for us? It'll never be over for us, Dozer. We're stuck in limbo, all we get to do after this is disappear."
"But we all agreed on that," Stanford interjects, looking away when Hobgoblin glares at him.
"Yeah, but it doesn't make it any easier. Don't we deserve to go home too?"
Dozer shakes his head. "Nope, we follow the plan: adapt and move on. It's been made pretty clear damn that we can't go back. Don't you remember that we're technically dead? Or did you forget about that little fact?"
Working his hands into fists, Hobgoblin lets out a ragged exhale. His features screw in anger, but eventually, he sinks down onto the opposite bed. When he glances over at Tim, a chill meanders down the agent's spine. They hold each other's gaze, neither one wanting to be the first to break it.
"If we're going to disappear anyway, Dozer," Hobgoblin says, his eyebrows rising, "then shouldn't we tell Agent McGee how his country treats their heroes?"
