Chapter 8
Gibbs came alert at the first tap at his door. Instinctively, he reached for his SIG, which was under his bed, as always, when he traveled. Then he relaxed, but kept it in his hand.
He opened the door. Ziva stood there, fully dressed, as was Tony. "We want to go back to DC now, Gibbs," Ziva said. "I am worried. McGee and his pneumonia…the Director with no one hale there to protect him…"
"I know Ms. Bradshaw said breakfast would be ready at 7, but it's after 6:30 now and I can hear her puttering downstairs, so maybe…" Tony said wistfully.
"Well, give me 10 minutes to get dressed," said Gibbs. "No point in a long trip back without some breakfast first."
Ms. Bradshaw was willing to feed them early, although her apologies for the poor, "unfinished" meal filled the dining room. She could only give them eggs, sausage, French toast, home fries, yoghurt, oatmeal and juice; lamenting that fresh bread was still an hour away, and wouldn't they like to wait for that? Tony was tempted—the aroma from the bread machine was a siren call—but even he agreed that they couldn't wait.
"The sheriff came by earlier; said the highways are rough, but not impossible," Ms. Bradshaw added, helping herself to oatmeal. "People mostly stayed off the roads last night, and the plows were able to do their job. Even the mountain roads are mostly passable with four-wheel drive. You be careful on the side roads and the ramps, hear?"
Dawn was near when they set out, although they were glad for the film of clouds in the sky that would keep the sun on the snow from blinding them. The roads were a little slick, but manageable. Gibbs had Tony drive while he kept trying to get a phone connection.
Traffic was light, but no one was moving terribly fast. "I hate not knowing what is going on," Ziva growled from the back seat. "We are not going fast enough."
"There's more than one way to get to the Morgue quickly, Zee-vah, and I don't want to get there that way," Tony shot back.
"Still no signal, Gibbs?"
"D'you see me talking on the phone, David? Look around you—at the properties we're passing. Not a light on in them. Must be a wide-spread power outage. Including cell towers."
Tony flicked on the radio, something the group rarely did when they worked, since they couldn't agree on a station. There was a fair amount of static, and he glommed onto the first working station he found.
"…WUCQ, 87.1 in Petersberg, Virginia. We're glad to have power when so much of the area north does not. This is Happy Happy Dave Danvers, bringing you all the hits—"
Gibbs hit the off button. "Try again, DiNozzo. Find something closer to DC, with a little less…happiness."
"Less happiness. Got it…Uh, boss; what are we looking for from the radio?"
"News of murderous attacks? Trouble at the Navy Yard?"
"That would be good and bad, wouldn't it, boss? Good because if it makes the news, someone would already be there, investigating. Bad because…never mind." He braced for the thwack! which never came.
Instead, Gibbs just turned up the volume on the radio.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
After his shout of warning, Vance grabbed at a loose panel and threw it like a frisbee at his target. It caught him right in the head and he went down, a deep gash in his scalp. Vance was following right behind his artillery and had disarmed the man before he hit the ground. He felt much more confident with the weapon in his hand and he fired at two of the other members before he felt he could even glance at Tim.
...and Tim was standing alone, still looking bewildered...and much the worse for the wear. There were copious amounts of blood running down his bare chest, but the two men who had been holding him captive were on the ground, the woman was as well...but the leader had vanished...and that strange knife was in Tim's hand. Vance didn't bother waiting to find out how Tim had managed to do that. Instead, he ran to him, grabbed his arm and hustled him off the bridge...and out into the snow. They ran...or they tried to run. The snow was piled high in drifts all over the deck and Tim started coughing with the first inhalation of the frigid air. He staggered against Vance who was hard-pressed to keep them both upright in the wind. But it wasn't the wind that surprised him.
It was the sun. He and Tim both squinted in the morning light. Where had daylight come from? Had all this really lasted the whole night? Still, it was freezing in the wind and they were not equipped to deal with another attack, especially not Tim who started to wheeze as they struggled through the snow.
"I've got you, McGee," he said, shouting over the wind. "You can lean on me."
Vance hurried Tim to the gangplank and then was dismayed to see that it was no longer there. The entrance gangplank was up, but the exit was not. Was it the storm or something else? Vance didn't know, but it meant a scramble back to the beginning and they had to get going. There was barely room for both of them abreast, and Tim kept slipping in the snow. Forward, forward. Not fast enough but as fast as they could both manage.
"Free...zing..." Tim gasped out just before another coughing fit had him leaning heavily against Vance who continued forward. His only comfort was that, no matter how well-dressed their captors might be, even they would take time to get through the snow.
"I know. Just keep moving. We'll get you inside."
Together, they climbed over one of the bars and then forced their way through a plastic covering and back to the gangplank. Vance saw Tim's clothes in the entranceway but he didn't dare stop, not even to pick anything up. It was too much of a risk when he had no idea where their captors were and what they were doing.
"Come on, Tim. We don't have far to go. Just across Willard Park. Let's go."
Vance slung one of Tim's arms over his shoulders and put one of his own arms around Tim's back to support him as they hurried down the slippery gangplank. Tim had the hand holding the knife to his chest, the blood still bright red and flowing. Vance thought that it didn't look life-threatening...and he hoped he was right. The worst injuries on Sergeant James had been his head and his neck. The others had been deep but not necessarily fatal.
Tim slipped badly on the gangplank, falling down, and dragging Vance down with him, but they were up again and slip-sliding down to the pier. At the bottom, they again struggled forward, against the wind, through the drifting snow.
Tim's wheezing sounded worse than ever and he was coughing every other breath as they ran. Hopefully, once they were indoors, in the warmth, he'd be fine in that respect.
Tim looked back once.
"Don't...see them...coming," he gasped.
"Good," Vance said, feeling a bit tired himself what with having to drag Tim along through the snow. "Maybe we bloodied them enough that they'll have to stop to lick their wounds."
And then, Vance heard what gave him the most hope for Tim's current state.
"Yeah...l-literally."
Vance laughed and redoubled his pace, trying to ignore how bad Tim's breathing sounded and just get them inside...and to relative safety.
At Willard Park, they were forced to slow down even more to get around the cannons and through the large drifts that had piled up overnight.
Then, to the relatively open space of Sicard Street...and unfortunately, around the back to the same door they'd been taken from. The front doors would be locked and Vance didn't want to give their captors a free entrance to the rest of the building. Best to keep their attack, if and when it came, confined to one entrance.
Through the garage and back into Autopsy. Tim sagged to the floor, unable to stay upright any longer, he coughed harshly and tears of pain coursed down his cheeks. Vance looked around for some scrubs or anything to put on Tim. Quickly, he pulled off his coat and looked at the shaking figure on the floor.
...and Tim looked pretty pitiful at the moment. Besides the obvious knife wounds on his chest and abdomen, his skin was red and raw from the wind, but his face was horribly pale...and his feet were bloody from running through the snow. Vance crouched on the floor and helped Tim sit up so that he could better wrap the coat around him. Tim was still wheezing and coughing, but he managed a faint smile at Vance's actions.
"What...time is it?" he asked.
"I have no idea. I dismantled my watch to get the cuffs off."
"I guess...it doesn't..." Another coughing fit. "...it doesn't matter."
"No. Probably not. I'd better get that door secured."
Tim nodded wearily and continued to shake with the cold, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to keep his remaining body heat in his body.
Vance turned toward the door when it began to open.
Instantly, he raised his gun, ready to fire on the invaders.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
When morning came, Ducky looked out on a clear blue sky. The plowing service had plowed his driveway, and the news reported that the main roads were okay. There was a caution, though, that another storm would move in later in the day. I shall get in, do a little work, and then go back home. It's Saturday; there won't be too many people coming to work. I can get paid for overtime.
That was a cheerful thought. Almost as cheerful as the notion of just staying home…but no; the sergeant needed to be attended to, and those thoughts of chakras would not let him be if he didn't get some answers now.
He arrived at NCIS around 9 a.m. The NCIS parking garage was almost totally empty, although other parts of the Yard showed life. There went a Bobcat, plowing a sidewalk. In front of the Navy Museum, men were shoveling snow by hand. The air was crisp, cold, and very still. Here and there clumps of snow that had lain on the tops of branches lost their hold and fell to the ground. Vapors from steam pipes rose white and straight into the sky. It was a beautiful winter day.
Walking around to the front entrance, Ducky found the sidewalks plowed clear, so there was no way of telling how many people had come in yet that day. But the automatic doors did not open, to his surprise. He peered in, but could not see a guard on duty, much less anyone else.
Puzzled, he racked his mind for an explanation. NCIS never closed; plain and simple. It was quieter some days than others, such as Sundays or Christmas, but it was always open, 'round the clock. Crime didn't rest. Even if the heat had gone off and operations were moved to building #200, the flagship building would have some presence, still, and there would be a sign on the door directing employees to the alternate site.
Since that had not happened, Ducky assumed that it was merely a case of something being wrong with the door. Maybe it had malfunctioned just before he arrived, and the guard(s) had gone to report the problem. Yes, that must be it. I shall just have to go in another way.
There weren't a lot of alternate entrances, due to security restrictions, but Ducky knew a few of them. With little difficulty he entered through the garage. He was about to use the trick of his ID card and the scanner that Tony had once taught him, when he found the door to be slightly ajar.
A small amount of pushing got the door open enough for him to bend down and squeeze through. No alarms sounded. "Hello?" he called, not yet alarmed. "Is anyone here? I must say, you are letting the cold air in, did you know?" He tried to sound jovial, but his spirits drooped when there was no answer to his calls.
Perhaps I left home too soon, and missed an email from the Director stating that the building was closed…although for the life of me I can't fathom why…
A retinal scan allowed him into the building, which felt welcomingly warm. Not a heating problem, then… He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Vance's number. It went over to voice mail. Odd. Well, perhaps he is building a snowman with his children. Tim had also been here last night, Ducky remembered. He wondered when the skeleton crew had finally gone home, and why, if there was no emergency? But Tim's phone also had no answer.
"Timothy, this is Ducky. I am at NCIS and can't find anyone. Do you know what is happening? Please call me on my cell when you get this."
Unhindered, he took the elevator to Autopsy, preparing to get to work. opened the door with one hand, and removed his hat with the other...and then stopped short at the sight of the gun in his face. "Oh, dear," he said.
"Doctor," Vance said with relief and lowered his gun. "This is...rather difficult to explain."
Ducky looked at snowy, soaked Vance and pale, bleeding Tim. "I see I miss a lot by not usually coming to work early."
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
The leader walked back onto the bridge and stared that ruins of his carefully built group. They had failed. All of them, including himself. He had allowed his attention to be focused only on the sacrifice and so had missed the actions of their other captive. Ignoring the groans of those who still lived, he walked over to the blood that had burst out of the sacrificial body at the first stroke. He was strong. He truly had the power of the Navy in his veins. How else could such a man have disarmed and disabled those who held him so handily? The ritual had been a success up to that point.
He knelt on the floor and touched the blood, bringing a sample of it to his lips. He closed his eyes and listened. Yes, the strength they had called was inside Timothy McGee still. They could take him back and finish.
At any rate, he would need to retrieve his property. Even if they had to abandon the plan and make another attempt at a later time, they would need the knife. It was important to their success.
"Who is living?" he asked, a command in his voice as well as a question.
Three voices, one very ragged, answered him.
Two remained silent.
"They are dead," one of the living said.
"They will be reborn. Perhaps they will find success in their next incarnation. We four remain and there is a task to complete. Our goals cannot be achieved without success."
"How did they escape? How is it possible that you did not see?"
The leader smiled. "We followers of vamachara are not all-knowing. It is that which we seek. The path we follow is faster, but even so, we still can be deceived. And it is the case here that we were. We allowed ourselves to be distracted by the ritual and forgot the world around us. Although we seek to master it and control it, we do not have that full control yet."
"They are dead!"
"Yes. And we live." He challenged the one who questioned him with a steely glance. It would not do to have them forget who led them and why. The rebellion faded instantly and the man looked away, unable to meet his eyes for long. "Good. We go. They will have returned to the building. The only one who needs to live is the sacrifice. All others can die."
"All others will die," the woman said. "But the man is mine."
The leader smiled. They had purpose now. They had remembered and would fight once more.
"Good. Come." He strode off the bridge and out into the sun and wind.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Gibbs, Ziva and Tony drove back to the Yard, sustaining only one minor accident along the way (in which the car slid off the highway into a snow bank, but didn't even get scratched). The strengthening sun in its rush toward longer days in the Northern hemisphere was singeing the edges of the snow, turning them to water, despite the fact that temperatures were still a bit below freezing.
Still, the trip had been slow as the highway speeds were down to under 40 miles per hour in many stretches in which the plows had been by a few times but the road conditions were still rough Too little salt here; not enough plowing there. Tony kept up a steady grumble about what do we pay taxes for? until Ziva put a hand on his shoulder. "We hear you, Tony. We are just as anxious to get back to the Yard as you are."
"Anxious? Who says I'm anxious? Vance and the McGeek can take care of themselves."
"When they're outnumbered, by a bloodthirsty cult? And McGee in bad health?" Gibbs remarked, and turned his head to look out the window.
"They'll be okay," Tony muttered. "They'll be okay." He glared at the odometer, blaming it.
When they neared the District, Gibbs tried his cell phone again. Bars at last! But his calls to Tim and Vance both went to voice mail. After two attempts to each number, he slapped his phone against his leg and swore.
It was past ten when they arrived back at the Yard. "Any trouble here in the last day, Corporal?' Tony asked the guard as he rolled down the window and showed his ID at the gate.
"No, Sir; as far as I know it's been quiet."
The corporal's comrade spoke up. "NCIS went on a lockdown yesterday evening, I heard, but I guess it's been lifted. I saw Dr. Mallard come in a little while ago."
That got the team's attention. "Anyone else come in for NCIS?" Gibbs asked.
"Not that I recall, sir. You've seen the roads. Most of the federal civilian workforce in the District was given the day off."
"Let's go, Tony," Gibbs urged, seeing that the guard house gate was up. There was no telling what they could expect to find.
