Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own the show.
A/N: Here we go. Another Brody POV chapter...
One of the most frustrating things was having to sit in a hospital room. Brody didn't want to be there, she didn't want the nasal cannula feeding her oxygen, and she definitely didn't want to have to stay when she could be out doing her job. Her attempt to get out of bed after waking up a few minutes earlier hadn't gone so well though.
Even sitting up straight had put too much pressure on her abdomen and though she could push through the pain, it had seemed her legs weren't so willing to hold her weight yet. The nurse who had rushed in had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was suffering from acute blood loss and if she tried a stunt like that again she could just sleep on the floor all night and risk infection. Under different circumstances she may have been amused by the nurse's behavior, but as it was she was only all the more irritated.
She was also lightheaded, her thoughts were more disjointed than usual, and it felt like every inch of her body was sore. She could barely pick her head up she was so exhausted and kept dozing off. Mostly though she didn't particularly want to have a face-to-floor meeting, so she'd agreed to 'behave' as the nurse had put it.
She considered calling one of the team and seeing what they were up to. They were probably working on trying to find whoever had attacked her though. She vaguely remembered speaking with Pride, but couldn't really place the memory and wasn't even sure if it was real or just some sort of fabrication her mind had dreamt up. Even the events leading her to laying in a hospital bed were hazy.
She remembered a mask and a lot of pain. Words jumbled together in someone else's voice occasionally drifted through her thoughts. Then there was a name.
Shanks.
Marcus Shanks. It repeated itself over and over in her head. She knew that name, could remember the first time she'd heard it and the last time she'd seen its owner. With that thought came a wave of nausea and she wasn't sure if it was caused by her injuries or remorse or a mix of the two.
She closed her eyes and swallowed around the lump in her throat, wincing slightly when it made her neck sear with pain like a thousand little knives poking her flesh. She concentrated on breathing and listening to the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. After a few seconds the pain eased and she shifted in the bed to try and get more comfortable.
A loud 'pop', a very distinct sound that could only have been made by a gun, suddenly filled the room. Meredith's eyes flew open and she felt herself tense as she looked towards the door. She began sitting up, ignoring the discomfort and dizziness altogether, and just as she did the door was pushed open.
Leaning back against the door was a police officer, the officer who had waved to her from the hallway when the nurse had left, and as the door slid open he slid down its surface until he hit the ground. As he slumped over onto the floor she spotted the telltale signs of a gunshot wound to the chest and a gun resting in his limp hand.
She looked up, searching for whoever had shot the officer, and saw who it was immediately. Standing in the doorway was a tall, muscular man with dark brown hair and matching eyes. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place why.
He stepped into the room quickly and moved over to her bed without any care for the officer he stepped over. His dark eyes were trained solely on her and she felt a feeling of foreboding twist her stomach while she tried to push herself up further.
He was at the side of her bed before she could do more than sit up fully and the next thing she knew the barrel of a gun was pressed against her temple. "Don't move," he ordered gruffly.
She glanced up at him and met his eyes, noting the anger and hatred staring back at her. "Who are you?"
'Your executioner,' a voice rang through her head.
"Aaron Shanks," he answered. He grabbed her forearm, his larger hand wrapping around it with a bruising grip.
The name, said by the distantly familiar voice, brought back flashes of memories from the attack. She remembered him kneeling over her, she remembered the knife, and she remembered his declaration that he would be her executioner.
"You remember my brother than," he continued upon seeing the realization cross her face. "Good." He jerked her arm, effectively pulling her off the bed. "Let's go, Agent Brody."
"Go where?" she asked, mostly as a diversionary tactic, as she tried to get her balance. She was pretty sure the only thing keeping her upright was the firm grip he still had on her upper arm.
"Somewhere that's not here."
"That's specific," she muttered to herself as she tried to make her hazy mind focus on finding leverage over her would-be-executioner.
They had just made it out the door, having had to step over the police officer, when an even more familiar voice rang down the hallway opposite them. "NCIS, drop the weapon."
Brody looked up and smiled half-heartedly upon seeing Pride and LaSalle carefully inching their way down the corridor with their guns raised. She met Pride's eyes for a brief moment and he gave her a subtle nod as if asking if she was alright while simultaneously assuring her that they'd get her out of the situation. She gave a small nod back in acknowledgement.
Shanks stiffened while pulling her in front of him, the gun pressed into the back of her neck. She faltered for a moment from the sudden movement, but managed to stay completely still. "Back off," Shanks yelled.
"We can't do that," LaSalle said in return as they inched a little closer. They stopped just far enough away to not overcrowd him.
"Put the gun down," Pride added.
Shanks didn't reply back, but suddenly she felt the gun moved from the back of her neck just before he shoved her into the door frame. Her head hit the frame with a 'thud' and her vision instantly blurred, everything around her slowly fading to darkness, as she sank to the ground.
