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THE INSIDER
Chapter Nine
Tony barely had time to gasp for breath as the cold water forced the air from his lungs and he was tossed over and over by the fast moving torrent. Disoriented, the urge to fight against the current gripped him and he started to thrash wildly. Blinding pain speared his side and he felt a couple of ribs give way as his back made brutal contact with a huge submerged rock. Shock and the force of the blow caused him to inhale a mouthful of water. Hacking coughs wracked his body as he fought to expel the liquid from his burning lungs, each cough expanding his ribcage and sending excruciating needles of agony slicing through his body.
With the force of the water holding him under, before he knew it he was tumbling and spinning again. With a rumbling liquid explosion of noise and darkness, the powerful, seething torrent carried him downriver and around a sweeping bend.
He surfaced momentarily, dazed and disoriented in water that was too deep to touch the bottom. He had only enough time to take a half breath before the next wave came, looming over him like a white wall of stone. The steep gradient caused an increase in water velocity and turbulence and his body was pounded and scraped against innumerable unforgiving rocks on the riverbed as he fought the fierce suction forcing him downward.
It was getting harder to hold his breath. Coughing, sputtering and wheezing, his desperate battle for oxygen and survival was transformed into mute bubbles until his body had nothing left to give and he was completely out of breath. An eternity later, the heavy water darkened around him, his limbs grew weary from frantic wind-milling; his lungs ached and his eyes closed in surrender….and then he heard it. Loud and clear as if the man was right beside him.
"Damn it, DiNozzo, fight!"
His eyes snapped open and he forced himself to act. With an effort drawn from reserves he knew were close to empty, Tony reached out with his feet and mercifully found the bottom. He kicked off with everything he had left and, breaking the surface, threw back his head attempting to suck in a lungful of precious air. His chest began to spasm in a desperate bid to disgorge the invading fluid from his lungs and he vomited. A thick blanket of agony wrapped itself around his chest as he tried to concentrate on his breathing, a shallow pant the only option if he was to control the pain.
Beaten and exhausted, he lacked the energy required to swim against the strong current to the riverbank. He turned so that his feet were facing downstream and leaned back, allowing the fast flowing river to carry him safely away from his pursuers.
Gradually the pain lessened and he was able to ease his head up to look around, finding that he'd been carried about a mile down river from the gorge. He managed a clumsy sidestroke and kicked his way across to the nearest bank. Climbing to his feet he staggered several steps and stood shakily in ankle deep water.
Fractured thoughts stuttered into his head, shattered into tiny pieces and then reformed as shadowy images – Gibbs and van Borough both injured and trying to reach the rangers' station; de Beers attempting to choke the life from him; Botha, Morne' and Kruger who, despite his efforts to hide his trail, had easily tracked him and had hunted him down like a pack of hounds. He turned drunkenly up-river and lifted his face defiantly into the sun.
"Let's see you follow that trail, assholes!" he muttered.
The words triggered a round of violent, heaving coughs and he fell to his knees as his stomach and lungs convulsed repeatedly, spewing their watery contents. Several long moments of mind-numbing pain followed until the vomiting stopped. Completely spent, he dropped sideways and lay on the sandy riverbank knowing nothing but pain and wheezing, gasping breaths.
Tony hissed as the burning sensation in his left bicep flared angrily. Damn, the bullet must have grazed his left shoulder. He struggled to a sitting position and blinked rapidly until reality settled around him. He frowned at the growing bloodstain on the sleeve of his shirt and pressed down hard on the wound with his other hand. His lips thinned when he saw the blood ooze lazily between his fingers.
Slipping his shirt off his shoulder, Tony brushed the fabric across the wound to wipe away the blood but it continued to seep in a slow rhythm from the hole in his arm. The bullet had done more than graze him; it had caught the muscle and continued straight through leaving a sizeable tear in his bicep, one that needed to be dressed before he lost too much blood. Tearing a section from his shirt, Tony applied a wad of fabric to the wound and tied a makeshift bandage to apply pressure.
'First the Zegna jacket, now the Dolce and Gabbana shirt…no wonder Gibbs shops at Sears,' Tony thought ruefully.
Satisfied with his first aid efforts, he took a moment to consider his position as the red mist before his eyes lifted and his mind cleared. He knew his pursuers had seen him fall into the river and with him out of the way they would continue their search for Gibbs and van Borough. Injured and outnumbered, Tony knew he had to make his way back to Gibbs - fast.
Lifting a hand to feel along his ribcage, he winced in pain as he located the area that had taken the brunt of the fall. He clenched his teeth as pain grated all the way through him and then he climbed unsteadily to his feet. The adrenalin in his system was dissipating quickly leaving him utterly exhausted. Ordering his trembling legs to support him, he crossed the small clearing and re-entered the forest, determined to find his partner.
He stubbornly placed one shaky foot in front of the other as he tried to stave off the strong desire to break with DiNozzo family tradition and pass out. The world spun around him, his knees buckled and the next thing he knew, he was staring at blades of grass. Every nerve ending erupted in agony as hot bile rose into his throat, threatening to choke him. Another round of wretched vomiting, expended the last of his strength. The ground was cool beneath his skin and he pressed his damp cheek against it, trying to slow his breathing as the pain slowly began to ebb. He made a valiant effort to push back the blackness, but overwhelming exhaustion crashed down on him like a ton of bricks and, mercifully, oblivion took him.
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With a long-suffering sigh, Director Morrow looked up from his relentless stream of paperwork and watched as the Gothic forensic scientist continually paced the length of his office. He noted that she was still speaking at a frantic pace, her hands waving about expressively. As there was no one else in the room, he presumed she was still speaking to him but as she obviously hadn't needed him to contribute to the conversation, he returned to his paperwork.
A quick knock at the door was followed by the entry of NCIS Special Agent Monroe.
"What happened? Was he there? Did you bring him in? Where is he?" Abby asked. "Where's Agent Warren?"
"Yes, yes, no, and at his home," Monroe replied, placing a small box on the table.
"Why isn't he here? We got a hit on the BOLO on his car, we had its location…what happened?"
"He's not guilty," Monroe said. "At least, not guilty of leaking information to Jacques Botha."
"Agent Monroe, this is not the time for cryptic conversations," Morrow admonished. "You were ordered to bring FBI Agent Mark Warren in for questioning. It was not your place to determine whether or not the man was guilty."
"Yes, Sir," Monroe replied, slipped a videocassette into the recorder. "That's why I left Murphy covering Warren and came back to show you this security footage."
"Footage of what?" Morrow asked impatiently.
"More like who. The reason Warren has been acting suspiciously and disappearing without telling anyone is right here."
Monroe pointed to the plasma as an image appeared of the FBI agent climbing from his car and entering room 405 of the Down Town hotel in Georgetown where a scantily clad woman greeted him very enthusiastically.
"I'm guessing the woman is not his wife." Morrow stated.
"No, Sir. The woman is Kathleen Oxley. She was a witness in an extortion case Fornell and his team worked on last year. According to Warren, he's been trying to end their relationship for months but she won't let go. Calls him constantly. She's not above a little extortion herself, she's threatened to tell Warren's wife and the FBI Director if he refuses to see her."
"She's what Tony would call a real bunny-boiler!" Abby said.
"Does this woman have any connection to Botha?' Morrow asked.
"None that we could find. Her background check was clean," Monroe said. "The cell in her purse matches the number that appears repeatedly on Warren's call logs and the security footage placed him nowhere near van Borough's apartment when it was ransacked. We have nothing linking him with Roadhog Transport, the Botha's home or River Hollows…I hate to say this, Director, but I think we have the wrong guy."
Morrow and Abby exchanged a concerned glance.
"If Warren isn't the FBI leak – who is?"
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Tony regained consciousness in slow, painful increments. He was reluctant to leave the serenity of the darkness despite the irritating sensation tickling his nose. Clenching his jaw with the effort, he pulled his face from the dirt for long enough to look around. He blinked several times before realising that he was lying face down in the grass. Willing trembling fingers to stillness, he rubbed his hands over his face, dislodging the leaves and dirt that had adhered there.
His breath caught and his body heaved in deep wracking coughs that, momentarily, refused to let him breathe. As pain fractured all thoughts he lay there, gasping and shivering and waited for the agony to fade to a mere, burning pain. Exhaustion was seeping inexorably through his veins and slowly the fire in his side eased, replaced by throbbing in his ribs and shoulder. He didn't know how long he'd lain there but noted that the warm morning sun had already begun to dry his clothes.
Dizzy to the point of nausea, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to sit up without puking. The irritating buzzing in his head grew unbearably loud and it wasn't until it started to fade that Tony realised the sound was a helicopter. He sat up quickly and felt blackness threatening. By the time he'd dragged himself to his feet, he caught a glimpse of a Navy Sea Knight in the distance.
While he hoped like hell that Gibbs and van Borough had made it to the rangers' station and called for help, he knew in his gut that his boss was in trouble. He had to go back. He checked the makeshift bandage on his arm and was satisfied to find it still secure; the bleeding seemed to have slowed considerably.
The soaked leather of his shoulder holster felt hard and cut into his flesh through his shirt and he cursed angrily as he realised his Sig Sauer was missing. Easing the harness from his injured shoulder as carefully as possible, he tossed the ruined holster in the long grass. He looked around to get his bearings and then with a strength born of desperation he headed back to look for Gibbs.
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Morne' Botha woke to the sound of his own moaning. He opened his eyes to slits and turned his head from the glare of the morning sun. His head throbbed mercilessly and he attempted to raise his hands before he realised they were bound behind his back and secured at the wrists. He was thirsty but when he tried to lick his lips he found that he couldn't open his mouth. Panic seized him and he forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose.
He blanched as memories of being bushwhacked flooded back with frightening speed and he tried to remain calm and take stock of his situation. Glancing down he saw that his feet were secured tightly by a zip-tie and he could no longer feel his toes moving.
He let go a muffled yell of frustration and hoped that Kruger or his father were close enough to hear. Flexing the muscles in his face, he tried unsuccessfully to loosen the tape across his mouth then shrugged his left shoulder forward and attempted to rub his face against it. It would take some time but maybe the rubbing would loosen the tape enough for him to call for help. Knowing that was is best option, he got to work.
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"Easy…take it very easy," the voice told Gibbs as a rifle barrel pressed painfully into his spine. "Now, nice and slow, put your face in the dirt and your hands behind your back."
Gibbs was torn…just a few more seconds and he would have a head shot on Jacques Botha.
"Don't even think about it!" the voice threatened, jamming the rifle into his back as an ominous reminder. "You're good, Agent Gibbs, but you're not that good. I'd blow you in half before you could fire that shot."
Gibbs slowly lowered his face into the cool dirt and moved his hands behind his back where they were bound tightly with a zip-tie. Rough hands patted him down, searching for weapons and stripping him of his Sig and his spare sidearm. The toe of a boot nudged him firmly in the side and he winced as pain shot through his knife-wound.
"Get up – very slowly," the man said.
Slowly was about all Gibbs could manage. The time spent lying in wait for Botha had allowed his body to cool and his muscles had stiffened considerably. Taking most of his weight on his uninjured knee he struggled to his feet and turned slowly to face the man. His eyes narrowed slightly – he'd seen this man before but couldn't place him. The man looked nervous but his hands were steady as they pointed the automatic rifle at the middle of Gibbs' chest.
"You don't remember me, do you Agent Gibbs?"
"Should I?"
"You have quite a reputation in the Hoover Building," he told the older man. "Even Fornell has the utmost respect – that's quite a compliment."
At the sound of Fornell's name, some of the pieces fell into place.
"You're Fornell's probationary agent…Sorenson, right?"
Sorenson's stiffened slightly, obviously not expecting Gibbs to remember him; the reaction wasn't lost on Gibbs as he attempted to keep the man talking.
"Tobias thinks pretty highly of you," Gibbs continued.
"He does?"
"Said you had a lot to offer the Bureau. It's not too late, you know," Gibbs said, sensing the conflict in the younger man. "You're in some trouble but there's still time for you to make things right."
Sorenson huffed out a hybrid of a laugh and a sob.
"That's where you're wrong, Gibbs. It's far more complicated than that." He gestured with the barrel of the rifle. "That way…stay in front of me and don't try anything."
Gibbs tried to ignore the pain that shot up his leg with every step as he led the Sorenson back down the steep slope to the clearing below. As they drew closer, Sorenson called out in a language Gibbs recognised by its harsh guttural tones to be Afrikaans. Botha replied in kind and with a firm push in the back that nearly sent him sprawling, Gibbs entered the clearing and came face to face with Jacques Botha.
"Agent Gibbs, I presume," Botha said.
Blue eyes narrowed and turned to stone as he came face to face with the man who, only moments before, he'd had in his rifle sights…the man responsible for the death of his agent.
"Botha," Gibbs spat. "Or is it Pietersen?"
With a derisive twist of his lips, Botha shrugged nonchalantly and replied.
"Bravo, Agent Gibbs, you have done your homework. We were sure we had buried Johan Pietersen so deep that he would never be found - it seems it was not deep enough."
"Vader, there's not much time," Sorenson interjected anxiously. "That Navy helicopter will be full of feds looking for him."
"Vader?" Gibbs repeated.
"Yes, Gibbs. This is my youngest son, Willem."
"That's quite an accomplishment. Faking the death of your son and setting up a new identity so he can infiltrate a federal agency and do your bidding."
"If you pay enough money to the right person, anything in possible," Botha smiled arrogantly.
"Vader, where is Morne?"
"I told him to wait for us here," Botha said, looking around. "He must have gone to help Kruger."
"I found Kruger's body about a quarter of a mile from here," Sorenson said. "His neck was broken."
Botha turned toward Gibbs with a look of pure hatred on his face.
"Where's Morne'? Where's my son?" he growled.
Gibbs stared back into the enraged face without responding.
Botha grabbed the agent by the shoulders and dragged him backward, slamming him hard against a large tree. The ridges in the trunk bit savagely into the flesh on Gibbs' back and the impact forced the air from his lungs.
"I'll ask you once more, Gibbs…where is my son?"
Cutting him down to size with a murderous expression, Gibbs replied.
"You're the great white hunter, Botha, you find him."
Botha gave a roar of angry frustration before driving his massive fist into the agent's face. Gibbs felt his lip split open against his teeth as a fine spray of blood puffed into the air and coated his assailant's shirtfront. Unable to defend himself, the agent strained desperately against his restraints as Botha pressed a gun to Gibbs' head.
"We don't have time for this! Tell me or I'll kill you!"
"You fire that gun and you'll bring those agents right to you," Gibbs gasped, splitting the blood from his mouth as the helicopter made another low pass.
"He's right, Vader, we need to find Morne' and get out of here!" Sorenson said.
"Shut up, Willem!" Botha roared without breaking the mutually disdainful eye contact with Gibbs. "I found van Borough's body, Gibbs. I know you took the microchip. I want it!"
A sneer teased the corner of the agent's mouth, further infuriating the South African.
"I don't have it."
The menacing tone of Gibbs voice was in stark contrast to his calm façade but the fire of hatred burned white-hot within him. The midday sun flared as it caught the barrel of the gun in Botha's hand and Gibbs tightened his jaw, biting down on his fury and his grief.
"You want the microchip? It's floating down the river with my agent. You killed the wrong man you son of a bitch!"
Channelling his remaining energy with his crushing need for revenge, Gibbs brought his head forward swiftly and heard the crack of Botha's cheekbone as his hard skull connected with the other man's face. A furious howl escaped the South African's throat as he reeled back in agony as warm, sticky blood rushed down Gibbs' face from a gash in his eyebrow.
Botha recovered quickly with several punishing body blows, the force almost knocking Gibbs down and leaving his gasping and retching. With his hands bound, he was unable to defend himself from Botha's frenzied attack. Gibbs turned his head as Botha's fist struck him a mind-numbing blow to the temple. Before he could react another blow caught him solidly on the jaw with a fury and power that knocked the agent off his feet. Unable to regain his balance Gibbs fell backward, striking his head on a large rock with a sickening thud. The pain was swift and blinding and darkness quickly took him.
Botha stood over the agent's unconscious form like a Colossus and raised his foot to deliver a potentially fatal blow to the head when a shout rang out from deeper in the forest.
Sorenson restrained his enraged father from behind.
"Vader, it's Morne'!" Sorenson yelled. "He's alive!"
The two men stilled until the distant shout sounded again.
Botha shrugged free from his son and picked up his rifle. "Let's go," he said.
"What about him?" Sorenson asked.
"Tie his feet." Botha snarled. "I'm not through with him yet."
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Hearing voices from below, Tony found cover at a point overlooking the clearing. The effort of his trek back upriver left him exhausted, bathed in sweat with fine tremors running through his body. His heart stopped when he saw Gibbs lying beaten and still. Even from a distance, Tony could see the blood, swelling and bruising on his boss' face. Botha and a younger man were standing over Gibbs' still form. Instinctively, Tony reached for his Sig, cursing silently when he realised it was lost in his sojourn down the river.
He desperately tried to clear his head and think of a diversion, a plan to get Gibbs safely out of there. His body was silently screaming for rest but there was no time. He heard a faint shout from deeper in the forest and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the younger man apply a zip-tie to Gibbs' feet. He knew they wouldn't have bothered if his partner were already dead.
He waited a moment after the men left then, holding his ribs for support, he made it to the clearing as fast as he could manage and kneeled by Gibbs' side. He allowed a moment's gratification when he felt the strong and steady throbbing from the pulse point in the older man's neck.
"Boss? Boss?" Tony whispered urgently as he tapped the older man's bruised cheek.
Nothing. He saw the blood-soaked hair and collar and checked the back of the former Marine's head trying to determine the extent of his injury. He winced in sympathy as he felt the huge knot that had formed on the back of his skull.
"Hope you remember this, Gibbs," Tony said to the unconscious man. "Getting hit on the back of the head is no fun."
Tony sighed at the lack of response - he had to wake him up – there was no way in hell that he could carry Gibbs out. Taking his knife from his belt, he rolled him slightly and started to cut the zip-tie binding his hands.
"Come on, Boss, talk to me, we're running outta time here!"
Gibbs moved his head slightly and groaned and Tony couldn't stop the grin that played across his lips.
"Tony?" he slurred almost inaudibly, straining to hear over the pounding in his head.
"Yeah it's me. Hold still while I cut you loose."
"How did…I thought…thought you were dead," Gibbs whispered thickly.
"You in the habit of talking to dead people, Boss?"
Gibbs' mind was reeling. He had witnessed Tony, climbing down the precarious cliff-face; he'd heard the crack of a rifle and seen Tony's body jerk violently as the bullet struck him; then he'd watched in horror as his partner fell into the raging river below and was washed away. He was rarely surprised at the resilience of his agent but this time he was amazed - Tony DiNozzo had proven, once again, that the impossible was in fact, very possible.
He heard the exhaustion and pain in the younger man's voice and gritted his teeth against the nauseating sensation as he turned his head and tried to get a look at him. Suddenly, his hands were free, inducing a stifled moan as the release of tension sent spasms of agony the length of his arms and into his shoulders.
"You okay, Boss?"
Gibbs managed a wry smile. "I'm not the one who…who took a header off a cliff."
"You saw that? Well, it was a nice day for a swim…actually, it was very Butch and Sundance - but you didn't answer my question, are you okay?"
"Head hurts…what happened?"
"You hit your head pretty hard on a rock…but don't worry, I checked it out and the rock's gonna be fine."
Tony grinned at the older man's scowl and turned his attention to freeing Gibbs' feet.
Blinking away his blurred vision, Gibbs assessed his partner, taking in the blood soaked bandage on his upper arm and the way he held it protectively across his chest. Pain lines were etched deeply into the young face and he looked emotionally and physically wrecked…but he was here…a little worse for wear but walking and talking and now helping him to escape. The reality of their situation returned with a crash as Gibbs tensed and looked around the clearing.
"Where's Botha?" he asked.
"Not sure. Someone yelled from over that way and they both took off."
"Better make it fast. They'll be back."
Tony nodded, still hampered by the use of only one arm. He glanced briefly at Gibbs, noting the other man's glazed eyes and pained expression and recognising the signs of a concussion.
"I don't mean to take advantage of this situation, Boss, but I hope you remember this moment when you do my performance review next month," he said, reverting to humour to lighten the situation.
"I'm sure you'll remind me," Gibbs replied, tenderly feeling the painful laceration in his side.
"Bet your house on it," Tony replied. "Where's Horst?"
"Didn't make it," Gibbs said grimly.
"Damn," Tony whispered as his knife finally sliced through to zip-tie and Gibbs flexed his ankles to assist his circulation. "We gotta get outta here. Can you stand?"
"Not sure," Gibbs reluctantly admitted. "Give me a hand."
Tony's brow furrowed in concern - the rare admission and the request for help were alarming signs that he needed to get his boss out of there fast. He extended his good arm to Gibbs but his blood ran cold as he heard the familiar cocking of a rifle.
"Not so fast," Botha hissed moving from the tree line into the clearing. "Drop the knife, lace your fingers behind your head and turn around – slowly!"
Gibbs caught the flash of impulsiveness in his partner's eyes and instinctively knew what Tony was thinking. He gave his head a tiny shake – they were unarmed and outnumbered and Botha had nothing to lose.
"Now!" Botha shouted.
"Take it easy, man," Tony replied calmly. He steeled his features to hide the pain that burned in his ribs and arm as he slowly placed his hands behind his head.
"Agent DiNozzo," Botha said with mild amusement. "You are surprisingly hard to kill."
The young agent shrugged. "It's a gift that's serves me well."
Morne' Botha emerged from the forest, supported by Sorenson. He had a large bloodied gash across his forehead and from the pained expression on his face Tony guessed that he was sporting one hell of a headache.
"How is he?" Botha asked.
"He's fine, Vader," Sorenson said.
"Vader?" Tony repeated, looking from one to the other noting a slight resemblance.
"Where are my manners? You haven't met my youngest son," Botha stated with a derisive smile.
"Your youngest son? Let me guess…Lazarus?" Tony asked.
"Willem."
"Seems I'm not the only one with a knack of coming back from the dead."
Morne' shrugged off his brother's support and walked menacingly toward Tony as the agent stiffened, his body instinctually preparing for a fight he had no hope of winning.
"I ought to shoot you where you stand," he growled.
"Is this about the basketball game?" Tony asked casually. "Cause I'm sure that with regular practise and a little hard work you can improve that jump shot."
Tony ruthlessly denied his urge to flinch as Morne reached for the handgun tucked into his belt.
"Wait!" Botha said. "Not yet. First I have some unfinished business with Agent Gibbs."
Ignoring Morne's furious glare, Tony chanced a look at his boss. Now seated against the trunk of a large tree, Gibbs was battling to remain conscious. His head lolled as if it was too heavy to remain upright and his eyes were half closed. He was a tough son of a bitch but Tony already suspected a concussion and even unrestrained the former Marine was not getting to his feet anytime soon. Glancing back in Morne's direction, the young agent noticed the man was holding a yo-yo in his left hand and saw an opportunity to buy some time.
"I think that's my yo-yo, man," Tony said.
The random comment stopped everyone in their tracks and their attention turned to him again.
"See, the reason I know it's mine is 'cause it's a 1982, limited edition, Scooby Doo junior champ yo-yo. I swapped my cousin Petey six buttons and four green aggies for it when I was ten years old. It's been a kind of lucky charm for me ever since."
Morne's lips curled in a snarl, remembering that the colourful toy had been used as bait to lure him into the whip trap that had nearly knocked him senseless.
"In the last few hours, you've been in a car wreck, you got shot and you fell off a cliff into a river," he said. "Still think it's lucky?"
"Hell, yeah, I survived!" Tony exclaimed with a wide grin. "See, that's what's wrong with you criminal types today, you're all "glass is half-empty" kind of guys. I appreciate you bringing it back though, man, it's kinda special to me."
With a look of disdain, Morne' dropped the yo-yo on the ground and stamped down hard with his heavy boot, breaking it into pieces.
"Is it still special?"
"Enough!" Botha yelled, his attention now focussed on Tony. "Search him."
Willem stepped forward and restrained Tony firmly by the biceps. The agent bit down hard, refusing to give voice to the agony shooting through his arm and chest. He breathed deeply through his nose waiting for the pain to ebb as Morne' conducted a thorough body search.
"Whoa! Easy there, man," Tony said. "I'm all for "don't ask don't tell" but that was a little less like searching and a little more like copping a feel."
Morne' drew his fist back and let go a powerful right cross that landed squarely on Tony's jaw. Had Willem not been holding him up, the power of the punch would have knocked the agent off his feet.
"How's that feel?" Morne' sneered.
Tony waited for reality to settle around him. Unable to shake off Willem's firm grip, he stood as tall as he could manage and looked Morne' directly in the eye.
"Like you've been working out," he replied with a grimace as his pulse pounded heavily in his temples.
"Where is the microchip?" Botha demanded.
"What microchip?"
Another punch jolted his head painfully and the coppery taste of his blood invaded his mouth. He spat it out and touched the inside of his cheek with his tongue, cautiously poking at a laceration etched into his flesh by its collision with his teeth.
"We know Gibbs gave you the microchip. Tell me where it is or I'll beat it out of you," Morne' said with ominous pleasure.
"Better men than you have tried to beat my brains out," Tony panted, pausing in thought. "Though, to be fair, you show a lot of promise."
Morne' wrapped his talon-like fingers around Tony's bicep. Pressing his thumb into the bullet wound, he leaned closely and hissed into the agent's face.
"You made a fool of me in front of my family. Believe me, Sloan, you don't want to do that again."
Tony groaned, momentarily pinching his eyes shut against the staggering pain. He snapped them open and glared defiantly at his captor.
"It's Special Agent DiNozzo…and go to hell."
Fuelled by his humiliation, Morne's face transformed into a grotesque mask of fury as he drove his fist into Tony's stomach with a force that knocked the breath and a good portion of the fight out of him. Willem released his hold and Tony fell heavily to the ground driving shards of agony into his brain. In the distance he heard Gibbs cursing vehemently at their captors.
"Vader, we're running out of time. We have to go!" Willem said desperately.
Botha crouched by Gibbs and firmly placed the gun-muzzle the agent's head.
"Where's the microchip?" he snapped.
Gibbs glared at him with eyes that sparked with incandescent fury. Viciously, he nurtured the fury still burning in his gut.
"You heard DiNozzo…go to hell."
Rough hands grabbed a fistful of Tony's hair and dragged him across the clearing, dumping him at Gibbs' feet. The wavering double vision caused his stomach to rebel and sent hot bile rising to the back of his throat. With his arms wrapped tightly around his chest, Tony wheezed and coughed as he fought to control his breathing.
Botha moved to Tony's side and cruelly jammed the gun into the younger agent's temple.
"Last chance, Agent Gibbs. Tell us where the microchip is or I'll kill you both."
"You're gonna kill us anyway," Gibbs stated.
"Yes, but before you die, you can watch me blow his brains out and know that you were responsible for his death."
The two agents exchanged a glance and a wordless message was sent and received. The time and method of how they were to die may have been brutally ripped from them but they could, sure as hell, still choose how they faced their death.
Gibbs watched proudly as his young partner suppressed the pain and exhaustion wracking his body and set his shoulders, ready to face whatever happened. The hooded green eyes were dark, reflecting the infinite weariness of a man pushed well beyond his endurance...but hanging on doggedly. The former Marine was reminded of an old saying 'the more wit, the less courage,' and he knew that whoever coined that phrase had never met Anthony DiNozzo.
"Kill us and two federal agencies will chase you into hell," Gibbs growled.
"I wouldn't be so certain," Botha replied. "We have friends who will ensure our safe passage."
"So do they," Fornell's voice sounded from behind, as a dozen men entered the clearing with their weapons trained on the South Africans. "Drop your weapons and put your hands where we can see them. Do it now!"
Botha released his grip on the gun pressed to Tony's temple and it fell to the ground with a heavy thud. The younger man closed his eyes and his body slumped in relief. After a moment, he met Gibbs' gaze and, without needing to say a word, his eyes revealed his exhaustion and pleaded to go home.
Hearing the silent plea, Gibbs nodded his head.
"Let's go home."
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A/N We hope you enjoyed that chapter. One more to go to wrap it all up. Thanks, so much, for your overwhelming support - we hope you'll join us for the conclusion of The Insider.
Lyn and Laine.
