Chapter 7
Matt caught a cab at the gate of the Navy Yard, then fidgeted nervously in the back seat till he was dropped at the front door of the Jefferson Convention Center. As he walked into the opulent, dimly lit lobby, he became acutely aware of his lack of any kind of plan. Pacing the room nervously, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the first number he could think of.
"Yeah, Gibbs," Matt heard his father answer.
"Dad!"
"Matt? You okay?"
"I'm fine," he spoke rapidly, "Look, I know. . ."
In the background Matt heard a commotion, followed by raised voices speaking out of confusion and fear. "I gotta go," Gibbs cut him off suddenly. The next thing the boy heard was the unmistakable "click" as the line went dead.
Shit, Matt almost voiced his displeasure aloud. No help. As he looked around the lobby, his mind whirling, the doors to the Grand Room opened, revealing a very tired looking Agent Gibbs. Matt was half-way across the lobby by the time the team leader noticed him. The scowl that came instantly to his face told the boy his father was something less than excited to see him.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Gibbs demanded.
For reasons unknown, Matt was very nervous. As it usually did, his nervousness made him speak with his hands, wildly tossing them about as he spoke. "I was in Abby's lab when she got the results from the prints you sent her," he got out quickly, "and I know who the killer is."
"So do I. Abby called me with the results."
"But, Dad, it's. . ."
"I don't have time for this, Matt. Get back to the Navy Yard."
"But, Dad . . ." Matt tried again.
"No buts, Matt! Now! And don't leave again!" He turned and headed for the hall, erroneously assuming his only child would obey his last order.
The young marine thought about doing as he was told for just a fraction of a second before dismissing it completely. He was positive his father didn't have any idea what (and who) he was dealing with when it came to the killer he was after. He didn't even know what he would be looking for. Putting aside all thoughts of the serious repercussions that he was no doubt bringing upon himself, he made his way to the hallway his father had just taken. Glancing up at the elevator lights, he saw that his dad had just gotten off at the 5th floor. Matt really didn't want to take the risk of running into his father again, but with no where else to start, it became his only option.
The athletic young man slipped into the elevator just as the doors were closing. The four other passengers gave him slightly disgusted looks, which made him wonder why. Turning to push the button for the fifth floor, he caught just a glimpse of his still blood covered, swollen face in the reflection of the metallic wall. I look like hell, he thought.
One of his fellow passengers got off with him on the fifth floor of the Center. As the broad shouldered man moved right, Matt saw a bone chilling sight. Halfway down the long corridor, his father was just stepping into a room that was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. Closer to Matt, and walking toward him, were two men of exact opposite stature. One was tall and well built. The other was small and lithe. It wasn't their faces that he recognized- they looked completely different than what he could recall. What instantly made them recognizable to the boy were their hands. Matt distinctly remembered those hands, the ones with the small star tattoos in the webbing of the thumbs, as the hands that put a noose around his neck this morning. Was that really just this morning?
As Matt stood stock still, unable to make his feet move in any direction, his eyes met those of the smaller killer. The boy's heart froze as he realized it was recognition he saw there. Matt was desperately trying to make his brain formulate a plan when the man jerked his gaze away, putting a thin hand on the larger man's shoulder and propelling him down the hall, hurrying after him.
As if they had a mind of their own, his feet started going after the two. His head warned him it was a horrible idea, but his feet kept going, even breaking into a jog when the two men ducked into a stairwell. While he ran, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, then cursed yet again as it clattered to the ornately designed carpet. Picking it up lost precious seconds, and by the time he looked up again, the two were completely out of sight. Despite it all, he kept moving, constantly looking, and again dialed the well known number.
"Yeah. Gibbs," Came the standard answer.
"Dad! I found 'em," he was starting to get out of breath from the chase. "But I lost 'em in the stairwell."
"I don't have time, Matt. What are you talking about?"
"The killers! I found 'em! I lost them in the stairwell."
"You what? Hold on, I'll be right there. DON'T MOVE!"
Matt only sort of heard the last thing his dad said to him, and it certainly didn't register as something he really should do. Instead, he flipped his phone closed and kept running, his head turning left and right in an attempt to locate the objects of his search.
Just ahead, he heard the door to the stairwell slam shut. Coaxing a burst of speed from his exhausted, beaten body, he charged through the steel door onto the seventh floor. A few people milled around the massive lounge, but the men he was sure he would find were nowhere in sight. What the hell?
Thinking they had only tricked him, he turned to continue his search of the stairwell. As he spun, he noticed a beautiful young woman exit the men's room. Just behind her was a tall, well built gentleman. Confusion came first, then realization. But it was too late. Before he could fully understand that these were the very people he was pursuing, they rushed toward him. It took the very well muscled man only seconds to sufficiently restrain the young man. Then, as if in slow motion, Matt watched the woman he had previously thought to be a man pull a wicked looking syringe from her small handbag. He watched helplessly, screaming his protest against the man's hand, as the woman uncapped the needle and quickly plunged it into his thigh.
Almost immediately, the muscles in Matt's throat and lungs began to constrict, making it ever harder to breath. The man dropped the boy to the floor like a sack of flour, then he and the woman walked casually toward the carpeted stairs to the ballroom.
Not this time, you bastards! Matt tried to rally himself as he gulped for air. By pure tenacity, he managed to pull himself to his feet and make it to the stairway. As he began to slowly ascend the grand, spiraling staircase, a sudden, intense pain seized his lungs, doubling him over. He clutched the polished dark wood banister, still taking stairs. In a brief, lucid moment, he fumbled for the phone in his pocket.
"Matt, where the hell are you?" His dad's angry voice came over the line.
"Eighth . . . eighth floor ballroom . . . staircase. Hurry," Matt gasped.
As he climbed the last three steps in agony, he was surprised, and immensely relieved, to see his father already approaching him from across the ballroom. Once he was at the top of the stairs, he bent over, his hands on his knees, physically unable to keep himself upright any longer. His peripheral vision was going dark. He was beginning to see spots in front of his eyes.
"What happened?" Gibbs demanded.
"They . . . injected me . . . with something. They . . . went that . . . way," Matt weakly pointed to the right.
"I know, kiddo. We already got 'em," he answered in his best soothing voice.
As if his father's confirmation of their capture gave him permission, the boy surrendered to the darkness that was invading his vision, and he collapsed onto the plush carpet.
The first thing Matt was aware of when he regained consciousness was how he felt like he was suffocating. Panic gripped him for just a second before he realized the source of his discomfort was a plastic oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. He raised an arm to dislodge the cursed thing, but a calloused hand caught his in mid-reach, redirecting his arm back to his side.
"Leave it," a gruff voice ordered. He instantly recognized it as his father's.
Turning his head, he looked directly into the angry- or was it concerned?- blue eyes of Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
"I'm in trouble, aren't I?" Matt mumbled under the mask.
"Oh yeah," Gibbs emphasized, taking a swig of his now cold coffee.
Just one more chapter to tie everything up. Hope you are enjoying it!
