A/N: Hey people, the second part of this two-part chapter has arrived. It was so nice hearing from you reviewers, it makes it all worthwhile. I really have no indication if this is any good or not, so I've felt my way through the dark to conclude the hostage scene. I apologise for the rude words. They just seemed to work better. This chapter is also really, really short. Apologies for that, too.
Ooo, and brownie points if you can spot the text from the first chapter. :)
Anyway, the next and final chapter is finished and I'll post it tomorrow.
By the way, Kit, you were absolutely spot on. ;)
I love all you reviewers very much. Please help yourself to the chocolate brownies I made this morning.
Xx Lola
'Granger, I'm going to need you to open up.'
At the sound of her voice, he feels the knot in his ribcage unravel so rapidly it's all he can do not to laugh in relief. Gibbs, however visibly tenses, as does Granger.
'What the fuck do you want?' he spits.
'My name is Officer Ziva David. I'd like to talk to you.'
'Fuck off!' Granger half-yells, his agitation growing. He waves the gun at the agents, as if daring them to come closer.
'Mr Granger, if you're not going to let me in, I have no problem with breaking down this door.' Tony almost snorts. Negotiator Ziva was never going to work all that effectively.
'FUCK OFF!' Granger yells. He grabs the Tony by the collar and pushes him towards the door. 'Tell her to fuck off,' he says violently, and for the first time Tony sees the fear in his eyes. He uses the vulnerability of the dealer to surreptitiously check the timer on Matilda's waist.
1 minute. Holy crap.
'I said tell her!' Granger whispers, shoving Tony into the door. He winces, and with a quick glance at Gibbs, takes a deep breath.
'Officer David. I think our captor would like you to leave.' He sends up a silent prayer to the gods that her common sense rather than her Mossad roots come into play. Preferably in the next 45 seconds.
'Copy, Agent DiNozzo. Is Agent Todd with you?'
He shifts, and looks straight into Granger's eyes. 'No, she isn't. But she will be shortly.'
'THAT'S ENOUGH!' Granger roars, and shoves Tony back into the centre of the room. He looks at the agent with fear written deep in his irises. 'What did you tell her?'
30 seconds. Come on, Ziva.
'Nothing.' He puts on the charm smile but it feels hollow, even to him.
'Granger,' Gibbs interrupts, 'Let the girls go.'
Granger's eyes flash dangerously. 'No.'
Gibbs' eyes flick to the window, and a small smile erupts on his face. 'Yes.'
At that moment, the door flies open, and fifteen armed agents burst into the room. 'GO GO GO! TAKE HIM DOWN NOW!' Suddenly, the agent in him kicks in. He throws himself on the ground, taking McGee with him and covers his head as smoke and footsteps pound a bass line around him. Gunshots are fired, and the thud to his left indicates a fallen Granger. He watches as three agents seize childish arms and sprint out the door, and then there is a flurry of blackness as one of agents sprints past him. She leans over Matilda and reaches towards the belt, but through the haze he sees that something has stopped her.
And then, in the heartbeat's pause he watches as Lila, thrown whimpering across her aunt's body protectively, bumps the timer.
Without thinking, he jumps up, throws the agent over his shoulder and runs.
And not two seconds later, the entire building blows up.
The silence that follows is so loud he watches everything slow to the tempo of his heart. When he puts Ziva down from his shoulder, she says something to him that he can hear but cannot comprehend.
Before her, he'd had no idea that grief could take a physical form – he'd assumed it was emotional impact, the weight of the unbearable loss flooding through every rational thought left. But this physical presentation; well, it is excruciating. He can't breathe, he can't speak, he can't even bring himself to cry. He feels as though he could vomit for a thousand years and still have bile in his gut. He feels – well, numb with pain. This thought makes him laugh, a low, hollow laugh. Multiple pairs of hands on his upper back, gentle and consoling he is sure, although when he doesn't respond to the touch and the hands are lifted away, each has left a raw imprint that sting as though he's been burned.
He doesn't stay to take crime scene photos, or deliver witness statements, or to bag and tag evidence. He gets in his car, and he drives away. And that is all he can do.
