A/N: I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain.

Arrrgh: many apologies for the delay. Life interfered with my writing time. Then I talked myself out of finishing it – we don't really need another post-Somalia story…. Then I found I couldn't write a new story because I had chapters of this sat on my hard-drive, annoying me.

Ch. 8 – there's a little switching coming up for the next chapters. Not timeline but POV's – not sure if it worked like it should. Anyway, here goes.

Again with background and details.


"Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them."

William Shakespeare


July 2010

Washington D.C. was in the grip of a mini heat wave. The meteorologists' classification was something of a misnomer. Although it may have only lasted four days; there was nothing diminutive about the temperatures. The mercury had scorched fifteen degrees above average with sapping humidity. A reminder of why the city had been an unpopular posting amongst some diplomats prior to the advent of air-conditioning.

Since his first rambling outburst, Miller had acted with lucid, cunning composure. Abandoning the car, on the other side of the city from where he'd seized Ziva, they had moved once more from the location in which Ziva had regained consciousness. He had tied her bootlaces together, and then released the bonds around her ankles, to allow her to walk. He kept a gun trained on her at all times on their journey. Ziva had been grateful for the movement – easing cramped muscles and aching limbs – despite the handcuffs.

To an onlooker, it would have resembled a strange, shuffling procession as they picked their way through the sprawling, derelict industrial complex. Ziva's impeded steps mimicking Miller's own halting gait. She guessed his objective; to be as far from the entry road and any other chance of accidental discovery as possible. He finally selected the recess of a cavernous building – finding cover inside a partially divided, smaller space. What must have been in former days an office or, perhaps, storage room.

They had progressed in silence. Ziva reconnoitering her surroundings; quietly alert as she estimated distances, routes and cover. Striving for a glimpse of landmarks; seeking a clue as to her whereabouts. And, more importantly, an indication of in which direction she should head – if she should escape. Watching Miller; noting his strengths and, in addition to his damaged leg, gauging potential weak points.

"It'll be safer here." He waved the gun, indicating for her to sit. "Crack heads and bums don't come in this far."

Ziva frowned, puzzled by his reasoning. She had assumed it was to keep her hidden from those looking for her. Not for security purposes.

"You should release me." Deciding to repeat her attempts and carefully avoiding the mention of any mistakes.

Miller ignored this statement. Motioning again for her to sit; she obeyed and he tucked the weapon into his waistband. Limping over, he fastened her cuffed hands to a stout, metal pipe behind her. Looping a rope through and around, several times, until he was satisfied they were secure and tightly tying it off.

"If you release me now, the consequences will not be….as serious." She would try firm persuasion; she would not bargain, nor beg. Only once, when faced with such a situation, had Ziva ever resolved anything but steadfast resistance and determination. That occasion was when she offered Saleem her life; in exchange for Tony's.

Ziva did not suggest she would let him go unpunished if he co-operated. Her remark was typically honest and hardheaded. There would be consequences; Miller could limit the severity of them by making the sensible choice. If he did set her free, she had every intention of reversing the positions of captor and captive within seconds; using considerable, possibly deadly, force if necessary.

"Consequences?" He gave an odd, disinterested shrug. As if whatever repercussions might befall him, were immaterial; trivial. Miller took the water canteen out of his back-pack and, once again, assisted Ziva to drink.

"Thank you." She smiled in appreciation. The notion of an adverse outcome hadn't registered with him. She returned to trying consistent neutrality as an approach.

Ziva rested her head against the pipe; assessing Miller. Her mind was clearer than on her primary appraisal of him. And, apparently, his plan was to remain here – in the short-term. It was from this base any escape effort would need to be made. He was unkempt and scruffy; not exactly clean but not filthy or squalid either. Obviously organized and capable of strategizing: up to an, as yet indeterminate, point. He had several days' growth of dirty blond stubble and his hair was straggly and a little long. She knew he had been living on the streets for a considerable length of time. Evidently he tried to care for his personal hygiene. Military discipline must still hold good; at least in some areas of his existence. That conclusion could provide her with an access point.

"I am an NCIS Agent," Ziva kept her voice calm and collected. "My partner will be searching for me."

She knew the whole team; in fact the entire Agency and anyone else they could press-gang into service would be involved. Nevertheless, the idea Tony would be looking for her supplied particular comfort.

He stayed silent. Ziva repressed the small flash of frustrated impatience – negotiation only worked if two people were conversing. She reflected ruefully, in temperament, Tony was much more suited to this scenario. Miller moved towards her feet; he began to separate her boot laces. Ziva thought the first, slim, opportunity had presented itself. Her legs were highly effective weapons. He stopped, before the task was complete. Glancing up at her, Miller pulled a length of rope from his pocket.

"Don't be thinking something foolish now," Miller cautioned. "Anything happens to me….that partner of yours might never find you."

Her irritation was replaced by fleeting surprise – the last comment was accompanied by a shy smile. It wasn't a threat; he was trying to make a joke on the reality. Even if she could aim and land an adequately productive kick, her hands were still restrained and she was attached to an immovable object. As he bound her legs together, Ziva didn't know whether to categorize his manner as disturbing or harmlessly bizarre.

"Why are you holding me?" Thus far she had not asked this question.

Miller finished tying her legs and returned to her boot laces. He kept his head down and seemed to be holding a silent, internal debate with himself. The development tipped her classification in favor of disturbing; this couldn't be a good sign.

"Lieutenant Miller?" Perhaps appealing to him under his former rank would gain his attention.

"I don't know..." It was an answer – just not a very profitable one. ".…seemed like it might help some."

He sounded perplexed by his own actions. Another check went into the disturbed column. Loosening the laces, he slipped her boots and socks off her feet. Placing each sock inside a boot with almost comical care; as though he were worried they might get lost. Miller moved back level with her and offered Ziva more water. At first she declined, wanting to persist in talking with him.

"You'll get thirsty." He urged.

Ziva complied; it was horribly hot. The accumulated heat of the day leached out from the structure's walls and floors. Although there was no longer sunlight, the air still seemed to be burning. Within minutes Ziva was extremely glad she did drink. Miller rummaged around in his back-pack, produced a none-too-clean bandana and gagged her.

"If you yell; no telling who'll show up." - Shaking his head reproachfully at her as he made the explanation. "I need to go for a while."

Miller stood and picked up his bag. He set it down on the other side of the space – well out of Ziva's reach. Then he left.


Ziva considered her predicament. To begin with there was no way of knowing – for certain – if Miller would come back. She struggled against the cuffs; desperately trying to force her hand through the bracelet. Only succeeding in bruising joints and chafing the skin; the sweat stung as it trickled down her arms. Frustrated, she looked around for something with which to pick them – to no avail.

Her captor was intelligent – thus far he had taken every precaution to prevent her escape. Removing her footwear had underlined that fact; in theory it was harder to run barefoot. Although, Miller had seriously underestimated Ziva's fortitude in this regard: she would coolly flee naked if required. His thought process had appeared rational and methodical. Yet, clearly, he was very troubled. Ziva's initial evaluation of the circumstances hadn't changed. Until she could alter the status quo, gain possession of a weapon, she had to remain passive.

She also tried to make sense of the reason he had kidnapped her in the first place. Miller could have had no forewarning McGee and Ziva were looking for him – nor why. There could be no scheme being followed. Moreover, the peculiar efforts at thoughtfulness had continued. The former lieutenant had seemed more concerned she may come to some harm; rather than inflicting it.

As night swapped with day, the evening became stagnant, airless and even more oppressive. Ziva utilized focus on finding a solution to her problems to distract from the darkness. She had improved immeasurably as the months passed. Nevertheless, currently, she was trapped in an isolated location; her only contact was a man whose mental stability was questionable. She was, essentially, defenseless; never a state which made her comfortable under favorable conditions. And these particular ones were decidedly unfavorable.

She recognized the uneven footsteps before she saw the dim light moving toward her. Miller reappeared with another back-pack. He had been foraging for provisions – treating her presence as though Ziva were an unexpected dinner guest. Miller fed Ziva first; displaying the same, almost old-fashioned, courtesy in ensuring she had sufficient to eat and drink. Then he withdrew to the other side of the space – eating whilst arranging a sleeping bag and other supplies. Eventually he sat down and began methodically checking over his cache of weapons.

"Your partner only carries one." Miller had assessed the fact Ziva had been armed with two guns and a knife to McGee's single weapon. He had also been observing her behavior.

Ziva corrected his assumption. "McGee is not my partner…." Then she hesitated. She always thought of Tony as her partner but, technically, this wasn't true. "We are on the same team."

Miller glanced at her. "What happened to your partner, then?"

"Nothing." Ziva tried to explain the mistake. "We are all part of a team. It is similar to a squad." Seeking language he would comprehend.

Miller nodded, flatly stating. "You're the trigger-puller though."

In the weak light, Ziva had been watching him handle the firearms with expert ease. She wanted to note the location in which he placed them and was mentally calculating the number of rounds available; a total of twenty-two. Although, once she could obtain a gun, Ziva would only require one bullet. Based upon what she knew of Miller so far, she surmised he also would only require one to achieve the same result.

Naturally, she didn't understand the slang. "I am a Federal Agent; we are armed and receive training." – Hoping if she told him often enough, the seriousness of his crime might register.

Miller shook his head. "No, Ma'am." - Using the form of address for a female officer and again the shy smile lit his face. "You're a soldier too."

Ziva was taken aback by his intuition. "Yes, I have served in the military." She tilted her head. "A long time ago."

It wasn't really such a very long time ago. However, to Ziva it seemed sometimes as though that existence belonged to someone else. So much had happened in the intervening years she felt she was a different person. Moreover, those ties were renounced with her adoption of American citizenship. It was a distant world which now belonged to Eli, Mossad and Ari – part of her past.

Once he had finished with his arrangements, Miller limped out of the shadows, toward her, carrying something. Crouching down, he reached out to grab hold of Ziva's clothing. She panicked; recoiling and trying to twist away.

"Do not…." The words were a command but her voice involuntarily betrayed Ziva.

Miller stopped, bewildered. "I'm sorry." And he sounded genuinely distressed. "I thought you'd be a mite more comfortable sitting on this." He held up a crumpled jacket.

Ziva released a breath. "Thank you." Realizing he was only trying to slide the padding beneath her and inwardly furious with herself for revealing fear; for experiencing fear.

After tucking another unrecognizable piece of material behind Ziva's head and neck, Miller stood over her for a few moments studying his prisoner. Her reaction was unexpected and Miller seemed both interested and confused by the event. He shuffled back to the other side of the room and extinguished the only light source. Ziva closed her eyes in the sudden darkness as the unpleasantly familiar wave washed through her system; before forcing calm and composure to take control.


Thanks for the correction on the stapler in the last chapter – months ago now! And for anyone else, if you find any glaring inaccuracies/errors, I've no problem with you pointing them out.

A huge thank you to everyone who has posted a review – especially to those who posted one since I last updated. It is very helpful to know what you think. As ever make of it what you will and hope you enjoy the read. If you can please post a review; tell me what you liked, what you didn't or that you've given up and don't care anymore…