"What was that?" Ziva perked up her ears.
"This way." Gibbs didn't have an answer, but he wanted to. He would get it.
They picked up their pace, headed for what sounded like a muffled shout. The noise came from downstream accompanied by splashing. There weren't too many people in this section of the world, and chances of this being their missing NCIS agent were increasing exponentially.
They had to hurry. DiNozzo would be getting through the various layers of bureaucracy to get help—Gibbs had instructed him to contact Ducky. The man might only be a medical examiner but Gibbs had been on the receiving end of more than one of Ducky's missions and knew that there was a great deal more to Dr. Mallard than a doddering old man with rambling mis-remembered stories—and before long there would be a squadron of well-armed Marines to provide the needed firepower.
They would need it. DiNozzo had heard the now dead terrorist place a call on the cell phone that DiNozzo was 'borrowing'. DiNozzo didn't speak Arabic or whatever language the man was using but there was little doubt that the man was calling for reinforcements. That the terrorist cell had figured out that NCIS was in possession of the picture of the Hacksaw of Hormuz was likewise a given, and the enemy soldiers knew that NCIS would be disseminating that picture just as soon as they could get it onto the Interpol airwaves.
The terrorists would want to prevent that in any way possible and had already shown a fondness for things that went 'boom'. So it would be a race between the Marines and the terrorists, with NCIS caught in the middle.
Gibbs intended to improve the odds a bit. Finding McGee would help. Finding him in a breathing condition would help even more. Until then, DiNozzo would have to hold out, and there would be a lot of prayers aimed heavenward for the good guys to win.
Gibbs beat Ziva to the bank of the creek by seconds. He stared out over the water, looking for signs of his missing man. Another shout grabbed his attention.
"Help!" yelled the voice. "Help!"
It wasn't McGee. It was a kid, caught in the still swiftly flowing current, battling to try to stay afloat and reach the shore. On the far side another kid, looking to be all of twelve years old, screeched and danced up and down the shore line, trying to figure out a way to rescue his friend.
No time for decisions. Gibbs acted. He dove into the water, trusting in his hands held in front of him to ward off any rocks in shallow water. He used legs made powerful by years of exercise to drive him toward the floundering child, grabbed onto the kid's shirt with hands that had fired many weapons, hauling him into the shallows and out of the water.
"Are you all right?" Gibbs demanded.
The kid just sat there, trembling. The other one dashed over to the pair. "Thanks, mister!" he said fervently. "That water just hooked Joe, and I couldn't keep up."
"Gibbs," Ziva called out in a low and urgent voice. "Over here."
Too many things, and not enough of him. Gibbs made a command decision. "You two okay to get back to your parents?" he asked, stifling his urge to 'whack 'em upside the heads' as his own father used to do. The boy that he'd dragged out of the water seemed to be all right, moving on to feeling annoyed with himself rather than staying scared at the near drowning.
"Yes, mister," the dry one told him. "C'mon, Joe. You need dry clothes."
"Thanks, mister," Joe said, finally able to stop the trembling in his hands. Even his voice didn't wobble. "Thanks." The pair raced off, Joe picking up speed as his clothes dried in the warming sunlight.
"Gibbs," Ziva called again, more insistently. "I've found something."
"Be right there." Gibbs swiftly surveyed the creek, wading across at a shallower and narrower point to rejoin Ziva. It took far too long, he decided unhappily. He needed to find McGee, and taking time away from that was unacceptable. But was should he have done? Let the kid drown? Likewise: unacceptable.
The Mossad agent had found something. She pointed to the rat's nest of tree roots, most of them dipped into the creek water and showing more of themselves than tree roots ought to have with the dirt being slowly washed out from underneath the tree. In another season, Gibbs knew, that tree would topple over in a good stiff breeze. That, however, was not why Ziva had called him over. There was more.
A scrap of white cloth was snagged on one root, the cloth flopping back and forth in the lapping of the creek water. The root was thick but broken at one end. Gibbs felt his blood run cold; there was something more. That something was rusty brown. It was the color of dried blood, high up on the white cloth where the water couldn't reach. It wasn't just the color of dried blood—it was dried blood.
Was it McGee's?
"McGee was wearing a white shirt," Ziva remembered grimly. "This seems to be the same cloth." She fingered it gingerly, pulling the fabric from the tree root.
"The root was broken, right here." Gibbs ran his hand along the root, stopping at the end. "Here it was scraped away. It looks like someone was trying to cut it with a dull knife."
"Or a rock," was Ziva's opinion. "McGee doesn't carry a knife, dull or otherwise."
"So what happened to him? What was he doing here, and why isn't he here now?"
"Did they find him and take him away?"
"Doesn't make sense," Gibbs mused. He tamped down his emotions; this was not the time to allow his feelings to interfere. "If they found him, why not just kill him and leave the body?"
"Perhaps they wanted to interrogate him? They did with DiNozzo."
"Doesn't feel right." Gibbs cast around. They hadn't found the correct answer. Gibbs couldn't say why it wasn't right, but his gut was screaming loud and clear that there was more evidence to be considered.
His gut was correct. "There," Gibbs said, pointing at the bank of the creek. "Whatever happened here, terrorists were not part of it."
"Gibbs?" There was a question in her voice, tempered by hope.
"No footprints," Gibbs explained. "If terrorists had gotten to McGee, they would have approached over land and would have left footprints." He gestured again to the dark dirt that lined the edge of the water. "No footprints."
"Which means that they haven't gotten to McGee." Ziva understood. No footprints meant that other people had not been involved at this site. "But, Gibbs, where is he?"
"That is the sixty-four thousand dollar question."
The fact that two of his companions were dead and sprawled on the ground beside him didn't seem to faze the terrorist one bit. The blood leaking from the dead bodies had dried into a dark jelly-like conglomeration that DiNozzo chose not to look at. He'd seen enough of it when tossing crime scenes; he didn't need to subject himself to more. Let someone else have the honors this time. Tony DiNozzo just wanted to crawl into bed with a vial filled with pain-killers for the next twenty four hours and then crawl out to keep his date with Gretchen the hottie.
The terrorist wasn't cooperating. He started by tossing smirk-filled glances in DiNozzo's direction, and followed them up with a sneering smile.
Finally he worked himself up to words. "I'd run, if I were you." The accent was distinct.
DiNozzo had been through this before. "Fortunately for both of us, you're not. I'm better looking, for one thing; even with all the damage you did to my face. Smarter, for another." He idly sighted down the barrel of the terrorist's handgun that he was holding, wondering where the perp had obtained it. On the streets somewhere, he suspected. "Bottom of the barrel equipment they're handing you guys, these days." He sighted again, making it look as though he was aiming at the man's knee. "I wouldn't try anything, if I were you. I could aim this thing at your knee cap, and blow a hole through your heart instead. This thing is crap."
"I don't need to try anything. My people are coming for me."
"Yeah. To shoot you. Who's gonna get to you first? Your people will kill you without thinking twice. Mine'll at least keep you alive."
"I die a martyr."
DiNozzo snorted in derision, impressing himself with how good it sounded. "You wish. You're going to die a forgotten man. Nobody will ever hear about you. My people will make certain of that."
The last terrorist, carefully not touching the rapidly swelling black eye where Gibbs had hit him, said something vicious-sounding to the talker in a language that DiNozzo couldn't understand. The chatty terrorist started to object, thought better of it, and then settled down to stay quiet.
Which gave DiNozzo all of three seconds of warning. That was okay: the first second was devoted to a sudden attack of nerves. The next second identified the crack of a twig as something possible deleterious to his long term health, and time unit number three was used up by throwing himself to the side.
The third instant turned out to be the most useful. Fresh bullets peppered the ground where DiNozzo had sat, digging holes into the dark dirt. DiNozzo fired back frantically, just to tell the newcomers to keep their distance. He scrambled backward, toward a bare minimum shelter of rocks pretending to be a shallow cave, broken ribs forgotten in his dash to stay alive.
DiNozzo cursed to himself, watching the two living and tied up terrorists skooch themselves across the clearing toward rescue. He started to aim at one—it would be an easy shot—and then thought better of it. How many bullets did he have? Not many, and the box of ammo was located across the empty space of the this grove where the original four had set up camp. How many terrorists were in this cell, coming to the rescue of their fellow idiots? There was the bunch trapped across the river, the four here—two dead and two tied up—and now this bunch. Damn, but this group was better staffed than the NCIS! Anthony DiNozzo was going to have to keep a careful eye on how many bullets he used up.
DiNozzo caught sight of a branch twitching, and fired. His aim was good, despite the poor sights: there was a yelp, and a thud. Another one bites the dust, he thought grimly.
Gibbs, where are you? I could use some help…
Dammit, was there no end to this mess? Gibbs kept the curses inside, running back the way he'd come, Ziva keeping pace. Another flurry of bullets sounded, the gunfire loud in what ought to be a serenely quiet forest. What the hell was Gibbs supposed to do when they got back there? Sit down politely with the terrorists and ask them nicely to please stop shooting at DiNozzo? Hah! They'd throw in an extra round of buckshot just for bringing up the topic.
Not a lot of choice here, not if he wanted to avoid being put to the trouble of training a new field agent to take DiNozzo's place. No, they'd have to do this the hard way, without guns. Gibbs really missed not having a functioning handgun at his disposal. At least Ziva still had her knife, and it was already in the Mossad agent's hand. A quick gesture—you go this way, and I'll go that—and she melted off into the brush.
How many of the little buzzards were there? Didn't matter; they all needed a serious adjustment in their attitudes, and counting them before hand would only take time away from plucking their feathers. Gibbs crept up behind one, a singleton with a gun aimed right at where he supposed DiNozzo was hiding. Not a twig snapped, not a leaf rustled. Gibbs reached out with two long arms.
The odds improved by one.
Now Gibbs had a gun, a long barreled rifle that he could put to good use. He sighted along the metal; not the best but it would do in a pinch. Gibbs was definitely feeling pinched.
He selected his target, a man in a pair of dirty jeans and tee, holding his own rifle in a manner that suggested that he knew which was the business end. Gibbs picked his spot and fired.
The shriek echoed well above the gunfire. The man spun around and dropped his weapon, clutching at his shoulder and trying to keep the blood inside where it belonged. Gibbs tightened his lips in satisfaction. That shriek gave a lot of people a lot of information. It told DiNozzo that reinforcements had arrived. It told Ziva that Gibbs himself had taken out two of the enemy—one who used to own the gun and the other who was the recipient of the bullet—and that it was fine for her to proceed in a less clandestine manner. It also told the enemy that this was not going to be the easy turkey shoot that they had anticipated and that a hasty retreat might be something to be considered.
But there was still a lot of them. From the gunfire, Gibbs estimated that the enemy had a force of at least half a dozen, perhaps more. Six against two? Gibbs wasn't going to count on DiNozzo, knowing the shape that the man had been in when they'd left him on what was supposed to be a simple baby-sitting detail. Trust DiNozzo to be a trouble magnet…
There was always bluffing. "DiNozzo!" Gibbs bellowed.
"Yeah, boss?" called back from across the clearing.
No doubt about it: DiNozzo was not in top form. Wonder how many bullets his agent had left? Probably not many. He hadn't had many to start with. "You get through to the Marines?"
"They'll be here any minute."
Right. Like DiNozzo was going to announce, with everyone listening to every word, that he'd managed to contact a close to retirement medical examiner for help. That would certainly strike fear into the hearts of evil-doers. It would be a close call as to whether the terrorists finished laughing before or after they shot each of the NCIS people. No, make that after. Gibbs and his people would be a source of amusement for many years to come.
That was assuming that DiNozzo had been able to get through with the spotty cell reception in these mountains, an assumption that Gibbs wasn't about to make. Realistically thinking, even if DiNozzo had been able to punch a signal through the erratic cell phone service, it would take another hour or more for Ducky to convince the Marines to put a bird up to ferry a squad out here to look for them. No, better to try to take these bozos down by themselves. It would look better when the Marines actually did arrive if Gibbs and company could have the terrorists all tied up in a neat little package. Calling for help was embarrassing.
Of course, ending up dead would be even more embarrassing. Gibbs caught a branch rustling out of the corner of his eye, whirled and shot. Another yelp, and a body flopped out of the brush with its handgun tumbling from a hand no longer capable of holding it.
His shot advertised his own whereabouts to the enemy, and they responded by peppering his general vicinity with enough lead to open a pewter refinery. Gibbs hit the dirt, hoping that the boulder giving him shelter was made of something a little more substantial than sandstone. Granite would be nice. Six inch tank shielding would be even nicer.
They needed cover. Gibbs identified where DiNozzo was and decided that the shallow cave that the man had wedged himself into would serve very nicely as cover for three pinned down NCIS agents. The enemy would only be able to come at them from one direction, the others being blocked by several feet of rock and stone. Gibbs rolled to another place of meager safety, this one a bit closer to his new objective.
Gibbs eyeballed his target and the agent trying to hold it safe. "DiNozzo!"
"Boss?"
No doubt about it. DiNozzo didn't have much left in him. Where the hell was Ziva? Gibbs hadn't heard anything from the Israeli agent since they'd split up. Had they gotten her? Gibbs doubted that. There would have been some screeches of joy from the enemy if that had happened. No, more likely she was still skulking around behind them, slipping that deadly knife of hers into an oh-so-deserving set of ribs.
Open area: mad dash. DiNozzo, once he realized what Gibbs was doing, added his part by sending a couple of desperately needed bullets out to force the terrorists to pull back.
Gibbs dove into the opening, rolling up next to the wall. He was back on his feet in a flash, rifle in hand, and another round cracked the air in a futile attempt to locate and destroy another target. He spared a glance for his agent. "You okay?"
DiNozzo flopped against the wall of the shallow cave, not taking his eyes off of the opening. "Just peachy." He scanned the area outside. "Ziva?"
"Last I saw, she was having fun."
Now DiNozzo did groan. "I can bet. McGee?"
"Good question." Gibbs had more important things on his mind for the immediate next sixty seconds. "You get through to Ducky?"
DiNozzo didn't like what he had to say next. "Don't think so, boss. The signal didn't look like it got through. Maybe."
"You didn't talk to him?"
DiNozzo clearly wished that he could reply in the affirmative. "Nope. I'm hoping that a caller ID might get him or Abby to investigate."
"Worth a shot." Gibbs put another bullet where he wanted it. A screech confirmed his aim. Then he took another moment to look over the man whose cave he was sharing, and Gibbs didn't like what he saw. "Pull back, DiNozzo. Conserve your ammo."
"Boss—"
"Don't argue, DiNozzo."
The man didn't. There was very little left to argue with. DiNozzo drooped back against the wall of the cave, out of direct target range, not closing his eyes but looking as though the decision to keep watching for the enemy wasn't going to be his to make in a very few short minutes.
This was cutting it closer than Gibbs cared to. He coldly assessed the situation, noting where every shot was coming from. Each shot, he knew, represented an enemy combatant. He had an operative out there somewhere doing damage, but she was not armed with anything more than a knife. If Ziva acquired a rifle, she would withdraw to a reasonable target distance and start picking them off one by one. Since that hadn't happened, Gibbs could only surmise that she had chosen to continue to eliminate the enemy by hand which meant that he would need to be careful not to mistake her for someone from the other side.
Bullets were also in short supply. Gibbs too would need to conserve his ammunition. Make each one count, he chanted to himself.
He did. Yet another terrorist went to meet his Maker. Then one more went down, only this one would survive to see some health care professionals with instructions to patch him up for interrogation.
Then he heard it: a heavy, low drone. Gibbs knew that sound. He knew it intimately, having ridden in a similar vehicle making similar sounds more times than he could count. Reinforcements!
He risked sticking his head out of the cave just far enough to eyeball parachutes blossoming against the blue sky. It was one of the most welcome sights he'd seen. DiNozzo had gotten through! Ducky had seen the name on his cell phone screen, correctly deduced that they were in trouble, and gotten the right people to pay attention. Gibbs had been right to tell DiNozzo to call the M.E. If he'd had the man try to contact anyone else, the front desk would have assumed that it was a crank call.
The terrorists immediately figured out that the advantage was no longer theirs, and tried to melt away. Tried—a sudden screech indicated that Ziva was still on the loose. Not to be outdone, Gibbs took one more shot: there was now an additional miscreant who was facing not only a long prison term but leg surgery as well. Still, the rustling in the bushes suggested that the original NCIS team had been seriously out-numbered, and that only skill aided by a healthy amount of luck was responsible for he and his still being in a condition to breathe effectively.
A small squad of burly Marines, automatic weaponry in full view and ready for use, rumbled in with feet creating a miniature earthquake, dumping used 'chutes as they went. Each one wore a set expression on their face that said that they meant business and that the mountains of West Virginia had just been opened for hunting season with no set limit on the amount of terrorists that each one could bag. They were the most beautiful sight that Gibbs had seen.
Maybe not. Their leader looked even better.
"I want those bastards alive!" NCIS Director Jenny Shepard bawled. "They don't talk very well with holes in their chests."
In full body armor, the slender woman was hard to identify but Gibbs had no problem recognizing that voice—or the objective. Jenny Shepard had been a damn fine field agent before taking the Director position and she wasn't about to let a little thing like a desk stand in her way now. Dropping to one knee, she brought her own handgun up into the approved position, one hand steadying the other, and fired.
A shriek of pain. A fallen body. Suspect apprehended, advanced medical support to follow at NCIS convenience.
Jethro Gibbs could kiss that woman.
Director Shepard wasn't finished yet. She took one look at Gibbs, on his feet, and at DiNozzo, propping up the cave wall with blood drying on his face, and yelled, "Ducky! We need you over here!"
"Quite so, Director." Dr. Ducky Mallard, little black bag in hand that hadn't been used in a couple of decades, hustled forward from the chopper with a speed that belied his apparent age. "Anthony, you appear to have been tussling with the neighborhood bullies. Hasn't anyone discussed with you the inherent unpleasant ramifications of actions such as those?"
"Not in the last five minutes," DiNozzo mumbled through bruised and battered lips.
"Consider yourself counseled yet again. Where does it hurt?" Ducky started to probe.
"Everywhere, Ducky. Better to ask where it doesn't hurt."
"All right then: where does it not hurt?"
"Nowhere—ow!" DiNozzo hissed as something exploded inside at Ducky's triggering touch.
Gibbs looked up in alarm. "Ducky?" He didn't like the way DiNozzo, already pale, whitened even further.
"I think we'll let some of the x-ray technicians have a look at you, Anthony," Ducky told them both, "and I'm going to advise allowing some of these nice young men tote you out of here on a stretcher."
"Sounds good to me," DiNozzo forced out between clenched teeth.
Directed Shepard advanced on Gibbs, glaring and keeping another eye out for the Marines still chasing the terrorists trying disappear into the brush. "I knew that sending you and DiNozzo to that sexual harassment seminar would be trouble; I just didn't know how much. What is it this time, Jethro? What happened, and just exactly who did you piss off?"
There were times to grovel, and this was one of them. Gibbs put on his most innocent face. "Terrorists, Director."
"In the back woods of West Virginia? You were sent out here to investigate the murder of a petty officer." Talk your way out of this one, Jethro, her face said.
Fortunately, Gibbs had the truth on his side. "Yes, ma'am. It all started with a data stick…" He drew her aside, keeping his voice down as he filled her in. The Marines filtered their way back to the camp as they talked, taking charge of the prisoners and giving the pair plenty of space. Overhearing NCIS intelligence was not something that they were eager to do, especially after the first two were glared away by the NCIS director.
"Which is when you arrived with the Marines," Gibbs concluded.
"Lucky for you that we did," Shepard told him, trying not to let her tone go soft. It had been close; very close. They both realized that. Shepard raised her voice to the Marines. "Get that stretcher over here. I want DiNozzo on one of the choppers going out, ahead of the prisoners. Keep the other one in the air and searching for the escapees. Close radio contact, gentlemen; I want those bastards in custody before sundown. I'd let 'em rot if we didn't need 'em for questioning," she added in a grumble. "As it is, the FBI people will be on my doorstep, demanding that our prisoners be turned over to their department, as soon as they get wind of what we have." Then she got serious. "There's one problem, Jethro: DiNozzo didn't get through. I didn't get the message from Ducky. Did Ziva—?"
"Not her, Jenny," Gibbs started to say, when the Mossad agent herself appeared. She was prodding another terrorist with his own gun stuck into his back, pushing the man forward.
Ziva greeted them with a cheerful and entirely satisfied expression. "Director Shepard, what a pleasant surprise. I have a gift for you." She shoved the man forward, almost toppling him over onto his face. "This man claims to be Jameel al-Hamid, the Hacksaw of Hormuz." In the stunned silence that followed, she continued, "personally, I doubt it. He is too stupid and too weak to be al-Hamid. He has already volunteered the location of where his friends hang out. We should be able to stroll over there, Director, when we return to D.C., and take it apart at our leisure."
"Volunteered, Officer David?" Director Shepard asked with a whole other question in the tone of her voice. Was the' volunteering' done according to department regulations on interrogating suspects? The knocking knees on the terrified suspect led them to wonder.
"Of course, Director Shepard." Butter could melt in her mouth, Ziva was so innocent. "There is much that 'Jameel' wishes to share with us. Isn't there, 'Jameel'?" She let her eyes roam over the other prisoners, watching as they fixed their eyes on the man who had supposedly 'helped' the enemy. "'Jameel' has been extremely detailed in the information that he gave to me: more plots that are being worked on, and targets that they expect to blow up. Perhaps if we were to leave him alone with his friends, he could persuade them to be helpful, also."
Everyone there knew exactly how persuasive 'Jameel' would be. They also knew how dead 'Jameel' would be once his 'friends' were finished with him. That wasn't the point. Leveraging more valuable information from an enemy combatant was.
Director Shepard had more important things on her mind. "Where's McGee, Gibbs? You said that he's the only one who can identify al-Hamid."
"Good question, Jenny. Wish I knew."
"Considering the intel that he has, I agree." Director Shepard made some rapid deployment decisions. "Are you up to continuing the search?"
Gibbs was stung. "He's my agent, Jenny. Do you have to ask?"
"Yes, Gibbs, I do," Shepard shot back. "You've been shot at, nearly drowned, and you ran into a burning building to drag others out. I'll ask it again: are you fit to continue?"
Gibbs started to growl and then thought better of it. His director had a point. "Yes, ma'am," he replied meekly.
Shepard turned to her other agent. "Ziva?"
Ziva had learned from Gibbs's performance, and knew what to do. "Yes, Director Shepard, I am," she lied, lifting her chin.
"Good. Find Sgt. Suhalis and re-arm yourselves properly. If neither you, Ziva, or DiNozzo was responsible for the call for help, then it had to have been McGee, which means that as of an hour ago he was still alive." Shepard tucked her own handgun back into its shoulder holster. "We're going hunting."
