A/N: I'm bowled over by all the reviews, and ever so grateful to those who take the time.
I've had some comments about my strange expressions and such, and would just like to point out that while I'm not quite in Ziva's league, I'm from Australia, and as such follow a different set of rules for things like spelling, measurement systems and word usage. For the purposes of authenticity, if you notice anything odd word-wise (e.g. "tonnes" instead of "tons"), feel free to point it out. Single vs double quotation marks has already been covered (single is standard in my part of the world), and will be changed from this chapter onwards.
Onwards and hopefully upwards. :-)
A world away, in the half-dark between night and morning or morning and night - she's not sure which, really, except that like her, the light is caught somewhere between one place and another – Ziva comes back to herself, and her first thought is that she wishes she hadn't.
Swollen lips draw back from teeth as the pain (ever-present and unyielding) floods her senses, but she does not cry out. They listen at the door always, waiting for the signs that she is breaking, and she will not give them that satisfaction.
Power, in whatever form she can wield it in her present state.
Sometimes, she blinks through the pain and imagines she can see him in the corner of the foul little room, hazy and unclear through the fog that grows thicker by the day. He whispers words through the screaming of her own blood pulsing through her veins; and sometimes they soothe: shhh; it will all be okay; iloveyou. Green eyes smile at her and she floats, imagining clashing lips and tender hands.
She wishes she could be as hopeful as he, but he's not the one who feels the blows.
Other times they bubble and froth bitter from his mouth, searing her skin. You left, he says with ice in his eyes, you pressed a gun to my chest, and your eyes said you wished I had died instead; isn't karma a bitch? It breaks her more completely than any boot or fist or club ever could.
She tries to tell shadow-Tony that she's sorry, that the mistake was not his but hers, always hers; that this is why she vowed never to be taken alive.
Her vow was only ever for to spare the person who would open the box, and how ironic that once upon a time it was her father she wanted to save from the grinding of glass into fresh wounds. Given how she came to be here in this place, where old blood stains the floor and the air smells of bitter tears and useless pleas, it would probably come as no surprise.
No, now it is for Tony that she fears, imagining him pacing and flailing and raging in the shadows, and she cannot help seeing him any more than she can protect herself from burns and blows and the cold slice of a knife through tender flesh.
There are many things about her – and Mossad – that he does not know, but he knows enough about her life outside of NCIS, and she prays he will never find out exactly how she's spent the last eleven days. She would rather them remember her as strong and proud and fearless, than this shivering mess of bones and blood and bruises.
She would rather they think her a traitor, a coyote in sheep's clothing, a mole like Lee - if only to spare them from the truth.
If only, if only. The words taste like blood on her tongue. She spits, but they remain.
If only she had made the call requesting Michael's extraction when she first sensed the depths of his despair (perhaps his end would have been the same anyway, but it would not have come with such a price). If only she had trusted the right people, trusted Gibbs and Tony enough (for they at least had given her no reason to doubt them) to tell them what was happening.
If only she had gotten on that plane: though to openly defy her father would be to sign her own death warrant. Irony burns, like cigarette butts ground into golden skin.
Ziva does not believe in heaven and hell, does not believe in anything much these days, and whether or not one's head ends up sealed in a courier box after their death makes no difference to their fate, when it's all said and done. But she understands all too well how it affects those who are left behind.
She is many things; a spear, a daughter, an assassin, an investigator, a friend and once-lover. The deadly queen and a pawn in the games of men. Destroyer of hopes and lives and hearts.
Above all, she is not optimistic about her chances of survival.
There once was a good man, a kind and laughing man who might have loved her once, and trusted her to watch his eight. "Six, Zee-vah," his voice echoes in the room, or maybe it's in her head, "you're reverting again." If only she had told him how she felt, back in the days when everything was… not simple, but at least less complicated.
There is no time to dwell on the impossibilities of saying those words as her hand is crushed beneath the weight of an unforgiving foot.
Fireworks explode in her vision as she nearly bites clear through her lip in an attempt to stop from screaming . She fails, and it echoes around the room as he grinds his boot over her fingers. Bone crunches and all she can think of is that she will have to learn to shoot with her other hand, and she didn't hear the door or his shuffling feet or the familiar and hated cough.
She heard nothing but Tony's voice and just look where it got her.
"Tell me everything you know about NCIS," her captor growls for the thirty-seventh time, and she lifts her stubborn and bloody chin and spits in his face, because she does not care at this point how it ends and whether she lives or dies, she just wants an end.
But not like this, she thinks a second later as fists pummel damaged flesh and hands tear at tattered clothing, stripping her bare and grasping pinching grunting; it was not meant to end like this –
(She wonders if one day Ducky will start a story with "I once knew a girl from Israel…" and thanks God that at least she has spared him the horror of seeing her cold dead body laid out before him like an offering)
She breathes and oh the pain, the pain, of grinding ribs and bruised throat and aching failing traitorous heart. She gropes blindly at her neck, seeking comfort, and remembers too late the sting of breaking chain.
Her last conscious thought as she is spread out like spoils for the taking is of them and there and him.
"Nothing is inevitable," she had said to him once upon a time, surrounded by muted light and cold steel and the acrid smell of decay and regret. She should have known better - she who was baptised by fire in another world, where fathers lie and sisters die and a daughter sings low and sweet over the body of a son.
Death is inevitable, and it beckons.
Far away, a man sits in a deserted bullpen at midnight and wonders what other favours will need to be called in to fix this, to save the girl. Three days after Abby's discovery, and things are beginning to fall into place. He knows how these things work, and it's not happening as quickly as he'd like, but it's happening, and that's something at least.
He has sent Tony home to get whatever rest he can, told him to pack a bag and be ready for the call. The problem is, Gibbs himself is still waiting, and it was a long shot at best to call in this particular favour from an old Desert Storm buddy, now an international aid worker in Africa. From taking lives to saving them, he thinks. Hopefully saving one more tonight, though the phone remains silent and it's been more than twenty-two hours.
He hopes it doesn't mean the difference between life and death.
After so many years, there are no shortage of people who would be willing to help if necessary (and how it would surprise his team if they knew just how many). They are friends, lovers, family of the missing and the murdered, people with connections and money and ways to get the job done.
A life for a life, he thinks as he drains the last bitter drops of his coffee and tosses the empty cup into the trash.
Other promises of assistance should he ever need it come from people he's worked with from the numerous federal agencies and law enforcement offices in and around DC (and everywhere else). Agencies that he despises on principle, not because of the personnel (though there are a few notable exceptions).
Hell, he figures by now even the SEC-NAV owes him a favour or two, though he won't be collecting from him for this particular snafu.
Even after so many years with almost nothing to bargain for, there is a limit to the number of IOU's one man can collect and cash in, in only four years. His team are the best there is, but they also have a tendency to get themselves into all sorts of trouble.
"Need to know basis," he had told DiNozzo when the shock faded. "I'll make some calls, gather some intel behind the scenes. Keep it together," he warned with an uncharacteristically meaningful look that said I know what you're doing to yourself. And he does, without DiNozzo even having to say the words.
His Senior Field Agent has smashed Rule #12 to pieces and though he has no concrete proof, he has spent the last three years pretending he's not wholly entertained by their casual flirting and banter. If it's obvious enough that McGee can see it and write about it, they'd have a snowball's chance in hell of Gibbs missing it.
That Gibbs sees everything, knows everything, anticipates everything – this is mostly legend, but most legends have a basis in fact.
He knows the difference between lies and obscurity of truth (and that third category he likes to call 'too stupid to figure out what's right in front of them'), and he knew from the moment she stopped him at the airport that the decision had already been made.
Her ultimatum was only for the benefit of those watching, a sound byte that was out of sync with the visual (her eyes always say what she cannot put words to). Eli David is sharp; there's no doubt about that; but Gibbs doubts whether he was sharp enough to realise that his daughter even then suspected something amiss within Mossad.
If Tony could fool him, he thinks, and fleetingly feels guilty for the immediate - anyone could – that follows, because he should know better by now than to fall for DiNozzo's act. And speaking of games… there's the faintest scuff of a shoe on carpet behind him.
"I didn't realise you were working an active case, Gibbs." He feels a tiny bit of satisfaction at the expression on Vance's face. The Director wanted to surprise him, but he's not as quiet as he thinks.
"Did I say I was, Leon?" he responds, thanking McGee for spending hours teaching him how to instantly display a fairly innocuous file on the computer screen. Two buttons to push for an instant cover story.
"It's past midnight, Jethro. Surely you have something else to do other than sit here in the dark. Somewhere to be perhaps?" The undertone is subtle, but it's there nonetheless, and Gibbs is instantly alert.
"Got something in mind?" he says quietly and casually, testing the waters.
"I hear Israel is warm this time of year."
"It's warm in the desert all year, Leon. Besides, I didn't care much for the coffee," Or the company. He looks Vance up and down while the Director is trying to sneak a look at what's on his monitor. The man is fidgeting, clearly nervous, and if he were a suspect it would only take one little push…
"Something else I can help you with, Director?"
Gibbs wonders how a man can be such a mystery and yet so easily readable, as conflicted brown eyes meet steely blue. There's something here that he's missing, and for the life of him he can't figure out what it is. Must be getting old.
"You understand that she can't come back to NCIS without Mossad's approval, don't you?" Vance says suddenly in the silence, eyes darting over to the still-empty desk.
"This about those personnel files; Leon, because if it is I've told you -- "
"She's not coming back, Jethro," and there's something in the way he says it that makes the hair on the back of Gibbs's neck stand on end, and for the first time in awhile he has to consciously fight to keep his face a blank canvas. He knows now where Vance stands in all of this, and it only took five words. His gaze does not falter and he does not move for a second, as if waiting for confirmation. Vance nods slightly, and breaks his gaze.
"You know something I don't, Director?" It's a gamble and a way out, because Gibbs doesn't need to hear it out loud but is suddenly wondering if Vance can say it.
"No more than you, Gibbs," is the reply, but his eyes are pointedly aimed down and to the left. He bends in close enough for Gibbs to smell the mint on his breath. "Got that name for your 'Storm buddy who wanted a good fishing spot. Tell him to contact Saleh, of Berasole, the next time he's looking for a catch in the Red Sea. He's the expert." He's gone almost as silently as he arrived, looking as though a weight has been lifted.
Gibbs doesn't allow himself to hope; in fact he tries to pretend the conversation never happened, but he does struggle his way onto the internet and type in 'Berasole'. (Rule Number 3: Never believe what you're told - double check)
Half an hour later, Rick calls and gives him the exact same information, though delivered far more colourfully and ending as always with a Corps quote (today it's the relatively tame 'Heaven won't take us, and Hell is afraid we'll take over'). Hope flickers and flares despite his better judgement, and he dials a number with boneless fingers. A chance to save another almost-daughter is at hand.
'Gear up, DiNozzo. We've got a plane to catch.'
A/N: I felt the need for a little bit of ninja. It turned into a LOT of ninja. Sorry about that. I figured it was about time we heard something from Ziva's part of the world. Tony's dreams don't count, cos while I can't deny there's a connection between them on the show, I've never actually said that she's dreaming them too…
In Chapter 8: The remainder of Team Gibbs get together to plot their next move, Vance and Eli have an interesting conversation, and of course... the moment you've all been waiting for (not to give it away or anything)!!
Reviews are much appreciated. Thanks for reading!
