Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the bad guys and the typos.
Warnings : Rated T for violence and language.
Author's Note : Thanks to everyone who's read, favorited and followed this story so far. Many, many thanks to everyone who left a review. I don't remember whether I send individual messages out to everyone. If i didn't, accept my apologies. I'll try for this time.
I took a tiny (unintended hiatus) from the site to get my novel edited. Since it's with the beta-reader now, I had time to get this chapter together. Hopefully, the next update won't take as long as this one did.
In case you missed it, I posted a one-shot a few weeks ago.
If you miss Tony in this chapter, please don't worry. He'll be the focus of the next one where we'll explore his relationship with his dad.
Please enjoy this update.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
6:32pm – Somewhere outside Philadelphia –
"Alright, Agent McGee, it's time," Dozer says, his hand resting on his sidearm.
Tim's back stiffens, his eyes growing wide. "For what?"
But Dozer doesn't reply, just jerks his head at the hostage. Hobgoblin moves to cut the zip-tie around Tim's ankles, then yanks him to his feet. The strong grip on his shoulder forces Tim towards the front of the hotel room.
His heart plummets.
Oh my G-d, Dad didn't pay.
He swallows hard, fearing these are the last minutes of his life. He knows he should savor them, cling to these final seconds. But what is there to savor here? Bound and defeated in this dirty hotel room, hundreds of miles away from home.
When they stop at the bathroom, Hobgoblin stares expectantly at Dozer.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
Tim tries to jerk away, but Hobgoblin's grip holds tight.
This is it.
Dozer pulls his weapon out. "Don't do anything stupid, got it?"
Tim doesn't understand, but still replies, "Yeah."
After a quick nod from the leader, Hobgoblin cuts the zip-tie from Tim's wrists. One hard shove sends the agent stumbling into the bathroom. The door slams behind him and he slumps against it, breathing slowly to calm his racing heart. When he notices his hands shake, he draws them to his chest.
So they aren't planning to kill him right now. This is just another small act of mercy that reminds Tim these men are still human after all.
He rests his heads against the door, lets the wood cool the sweat on his scalp. It takes a long time for his pulse to slow, his brain to clear.
And once he feels better, Tim finally realizes how long it's been since he relieved himself. He seizes the opportunity, then makes a point to wash his hands. Even though his clothes are filthy, just a part of him being cleansed makes feel him normal. Chuckling humorlessly, he shakes his head.
Almost normal.
He glances up from the sink, catches his reflection in the mirror. The exhausted look in his eyes spirits his breath away. With his unkempt hair and bruised cheeks, he doesn't recognize himself anymore. Instead of a proud field agent, a broken man with no fight left stares back.
Hanging his head, he drops his eyes to the spigot.
So that's why they let me go to the bathroom alone...
Tim sighs and scrubs away the layer of dirt on his forearms. He doesn't know how he managed to get so dirty over the past day. Chewing his lower lip, he wonders whether it's really been that long. His watch is long gone and he has no idea how long he was unconscious. For all he knows, it might have been a weeks since he and Tony were separated.
His breath catches in his throat, but he shakes his head to chase the thoughts away. He can't - won't - consider Tony's fate right now.
Not when he can contemplate his own.
Shouldn't this ordeal be over by now? Shouldn't his father have paid the ransom?
A tendril of fear creeps through his gut.
What if his father didn't plan on paying?
It wouldn't surprise him. They'd never been close. In fact, his father called him a disappointment to the family name when they last spoke… the night before he joined Gibbs' team. And now, Tim expects him to pay some insane sum of money to secure his release. Like that will happen.
What if Dad isn't the way out of here? And what if NCIS isn't coming either?
His eyes jump back to his reflection.
I might be on my own. What do I do now?
"Stand on your own two feet, kid," he whispers to himself.
It's the same phrase his father said whenever Tim asked for help. Anything from money for college to martial arts lessons for fighting bullies was met with the same reaction. His father's smirk, the shake of his head and the words, 'Stand on your own two feet, kid.'
He never thought he'd say those to anyone, let alone himself. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Maybe it is time to follow his father's advice.
After drying his hands, he slinks to the bathroom door. As he lean against it, he barely makes out the conversation on the other side.
"…kill him?" Hobgoblin asks.
"If we don't get the money, we do what's necessary."
"But Dozer, he's like us. He doesn't know what his country – "
"We agreed on this, Hob," Dozer interrupts. "Take. Collect. Deliver. Kill, if necessary."
"Don't you think it's different this time?"
There's a laugh. "I can't wait to hear this logic."
"Agent McGee isn't a delivery where someone else is paying his way. We're the ones holding him for ransom." Hobgoblin sighs. "This isn't how we usually do things."
"So what?"
"Well, he's a federal agent, for starters." There's a long silence until Hobgoblin adds: "We don't commit murder unless we have to, Doze. And I don't think we would with him."
Dozer chuckles. "The game changed, Hob. Get used to it."
Tim's blood turns to ice. It's just like Dozer promised earlier, the group would have no problem killing him when the time comes. The agent grits his teeth, lets his mind whirl with possibilities about what could happen. Every single one ends with a bullet in his brain. His heart kick-starts, pounding away with an insane rhythm. Since he doesn't have time to formulate a complex plan, he settles for Tony's earlier one.
Run like hell. Don't look back.
Holding his breath, Tim twists the doorknob.
It's now or never.
He slams his body against the door, surprised when it collides with someone. Hobgoblin gives a surprised yell and based on the following thud, Tim figures he knocked him over. Without bothering to check, the agent darts out of the hotel room.
The intense sunlight blinds him, but he doesn't have time to gather his bearings. All he can make out is the outline of a huge parking lot, shapes of cars parked haphazardly about. His feet pound against the steaming asphalt as he runs.
"Stop!" Dozer yells from somewhere behind him.
But Tim doesn't. He propels himself forward as fast as his weak legs will allow.
Snippets of his location blur focus as his eyes adjust. The deserted lot with several decrepit cars scattered around. Dead ahead is a highway, thick with rush-hour traffic. Just to the left, there's a seedy bar. To the right, a boarded-up restaurant. He knows the bar will bring safety and a phone, but he would have to double back…into the path of his abductors.
So he bolts for the road, hoping he can flag down a motorist before someone catches up.
Tim's almost there when a hand grabs his arm, flinging him sideways. He lands face-first against the side of car. He stumbles backwards, blinking stars from his vision. His head pounds, but he has to move. He has to keep going.
Just as he turns around, Dozer pins Tim against the car with his forearm. Before he has a chance to fight, a gun digs into his ribs. He sags back, defeated and breathing hard.
Maui and Stanford loom behind the leader, their eyes scanning the parking lot for witnesses. But the only person here is an overweight man who staggers out of the bar. He glances over at the group, then shakes his head as though it's Tim's fault for being in this situation. When the man stumbles down the street, Dozer turns his attention to Tim.
He cracks a half-smile. "I didn't think you had it in you, Agent McGee."
Tim lets Dozer haul him off the vehicles. With a weapon buried in his side and an iron-like grip on his arm, the agent is marched forward. There isn't another person on the entire way back to the hotel room. Based on the way Maui and Stanford clutch their hidden side-arms, Tim decides it might be a good thing. He doubts they'd have any problem killing a would-be Good Samaritan.
As soon as they're back inside, Dozer shoves Tim roughly to the opposite side of the room. He staggers forward, stopping at the sight of Hobgoblin. Seated in one of the chairs, the man leans his head back with his hands against his nose. Blood sneaks through his fingers, trailing down his cheeks.
"I didn't realize how bad that was," Maui mutters, scrambling for the medical kit.
While Maui tends to Hobgoblin, Dozer gives Tim another shove toward an empty chair.
"Sit," he orders.
After Tim complies, Dozer zip-ties his ankles together. When he leans forward with his hands behind his back, Dozer tosses the rest of the ties on the adjacent bed. Instead, he slides over the table where maps and Stanford's mobile laptop have taken over. Right next to them are a stack of several pizza boxes.
I must have been in the bathroom longer than I thought.
As Dozer opens one, the familiar scent filled the room, making Tim's mouth water. Dozer rips the lid off, drops two slices onto it. When he offers them to Tim, the agent shakes his head.
"I'm not hungry," he says, ignoring his stomach's protests.
"You should eat before I change my mind," Dozer warns.
Before he can decline again, Hobgoblin adds his two cents: "Just take it, Agent McGee. It might be last you get for a while."
Recalling Dozer and Hobgoblin's earlier conversation, Tim flinches. With a quick nod, he accepts – and finishes - the proffered food before it can be taken away. While the others eat their dinner, Tim chugs the bottle of water Stanford gave him. As soon as everyone is done, Maui binds Tim's hands again. Then there's a prick on his arm and he knows exactly what it means.
But while the world blurs away, he can't bring himself to care.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
7:38pm – The Pentagon, Washington, DC – Office of Rear Admiral John (No Middle Initial) McGee –
"You finished yet, Suzuki?" Gibbs growls.
Kenji swivels in the chair, wide-eyed. "Uh, sir, you asked me to add half a million dollars into Admiral McGee's account. Half a million dollars that we don't have." He makes a face. "So I need to fabricate banking records, spoof the – "
"Are you done?" Gibbs interrupts.
"Not yet, Sir. Work like this takes time."
With a huff and a half-nod, Gibbs releases the younger man back to his work. As though trying to ignore the eyes boring into his back, Kenji dips closers to the laptop. His fingers slam against the keyboard with a surprising ferocity, but Gibbs doubts he makes any headway. Those random lines of characters flash across the screen, vanishing as quickly as they come.
Maybe I should have just asked Abby.
Cracking his neck, Gibbs gives lets his gaze wander around the admiral's office. It's smaller than he expected for someone of John's standing. Buried deep in the bowels of the Pentagon's East Wing, it barely has enough space for the desk, chair and the rows of bookcases.
Gibbs steps away from Kenji, rakes his eyes over the collection books. The tomes of Naval history and America's World Wars are organized alphabetically, but every so often an odd novel about espionage and war games breaks the monotony. One battered and dog-eared novel lies on its side and Gibbs rights it, surprised to unearth a dusty picture frame.
It's an image of a gangly-limbed Tim, wearing a cap and gown. A much shorter girl has her arms wrapped around his waist. Their identical, goofy smiles hold the Gibbs' attention and he uses his sleeve to clean the glass.
Stopping his frantic pacing, John joins Gibbs by the shelves. He takes the frame, a wistful look washing over his features as he runs his fingers over the image. The layers of dust fall away and he manages a haunted smile.
"It's believe to think that I almost missed this," John says, almost to himself.
Gibbs cocks his head. "What do you mean?"
John scrubs his eyes, clearing cobwebs off his memories. "I was supposed to deploy the day before Timothy graduated from MIT. I requested to delay our departure so I could be there. Surprisingly, my superiors did. It was worth it, even though I'm still paying off those favors." He lets out a hollow chuckle. "But to watch my son graduate from college at nineteen was something I wouldn't miss for the world."
Gibbs nods. "You must be proud."
"I was." John flinches, shakes his head. "I still am."
"As you damn well should be."
A tense silence rolls over the pair and Gibbs catches Kenji peering over cautiiously. All it takes is the jab of a finger towards the computer screen and the agent turns back to his project.
"I am, Gibbs," John starts, "but you have no idea what's expected of a Naval family like us. We don't have the luxury of – "
A quiet knock at the door cuts John off. And it's just as well because Gibbs can't guarantee he'd let John finish that statement. John squeezes between the desk and bookcases to answer it. Just over his shoulder, Gibbs catches the top of the lieutenant's head. While the man's presence doesn't pique Gibbs' interest, the aroma of his favorite coffee certainly does. He hasn't had it since he left for Mexico.
If that doesn't help me think, nothing will.
"I brought everything you required, sir," Patrick says, passing John a pile of take-out containers. "Even that special coffee, Mr. Gibbs requested. I had to go half-way across the city for it."
John nods. "Thank you, lieutenant. Well done."
Even though the admiral steps away from the doorway, the aide lingers, his eyes scanning the office.
"Sir?" he asks.
"Yes, lieutenant?"
"Permission to speak freely?"
After he places the containers on the desk, John shrugs as though he has nothing left to lose.
"Granted."
"I must admit I'm growing a bit concerned, sir. Your behavior over the past day has been – " Patrick takes a deep breath, searching for courage " – erratic, at best. First, there was an unscheduled meeting with that gentleman last night, and then you bring in Mr. Gibbs and Agent Suzuki this afternoon. I apologize for my forwardness, sir. But what's going on?"
The mention of another person boils Gibbs' blood. While he remembers a passing reference to something at their first meeting, he didn't think John would have met with the abductors without telling him. But when his glare locks on John, the admiral sets his jaw. As he rivals the stare, Gibbs realizes anything is possible.
The pair silently square off until Patrick clears his throat. "Sir?"
"You're dismissed, lieutenant."
Patrick's mouth gapes. "Excuse me, sir?"
"Go home. You're on leave until next week."
"But I – "
"Leave, now!"
Straightening his stance, Patrick shoots John a quick salute. Then he eases the door shut.
"When were you going to tell me you met with the kidnappers?" Gibbs asks.
John shakes his head. "I didn't."
"Then who did you meet with?"
"My contingency plan," John replies.
Gibbs' glare deepens. "Who was it?"
Ignoring Gibbs, John grabs one of the take-out containers. He opens it, frowns and passes it to Kenji. The agent's eyes light up at the promise of dinner, but Gibbs wrestles it from his grasp.
"You can eat when you have something for me, Suzuki."
When Kenji makes a face , Gibbs makes him the target of his glare for a moment. Withering under the look, Kenji turns back to the computer, but his typing is much slower. Glancing back to John, Gibbs scoops his coffee off the desk. He takes a swig, trying to calm himself. All it takes is one misstep and John could kick him out of the office. He has no badge, no gun, no real purpose for being here. Just an unofficial backing of the family and friends of his former team.
But he can't let this go.
He watches the Admiral rip into his club sandwich.
"Who did you hire?" Gibbs asks.
"Someone I trust to find Timothy, if we can't."
"How – "
"We made a deal, Agent Gibbs." John drops his sandwich into the container, draws himself to his full height. "You wouldn't ask any questions, if I gave you access to certain information NCIS doesn't have."
Gibbs' eyes widen. "But if it impacts how I do my job, I need to know."
"Your job?" John laughs. "You don't have a job. You're only here for support since you know Timothy well and I respect his opinion of you. We play our part, my man plays his. Simple as that." John settles into his stance, juts his jaw out. "Two separate plans are in motion. One with us and one without us, Gibbs."
"So happens when this person finds McGee? He just brings him home?"
"That's what I paid him to do," John shoots back.
Gibbs swigs his coffee. "And what stops him from shaking you down?"
"That won't happen. But just in case, I built in a fail-safe. Timothy will be coming home alive."
"You should've – "
"Uh, excuse me, sir?" Kenji interjects, shrinking under Gibbs' stare again. When John glances over, he adds: "Other sir? I don't mean to interrupt, but your account just received an e-mail." When they don't move, he sighs like no one understands him. "It's from the kidnappers?"
Gibbs is the first by Kenji's side, but he can't make out the tiny typeset on the computer screen. If John weren't here, he'd fish out his reading glasses. But he thinks of them as a sign of weakness, his onus of aging. So he squints instead, but still can't decipher the fuzzy blobs.
He taps Kenji's shoulder. "What's it say, Suzuki?"
Kenji scans the screen. "Not much. It just says everything will take place in Philadelphia. There's an address where we're – " he glances to John, makes a face " – uh, other sir, you're supposed to go to get the location and time of the exchange."
John sucks in a deep breath. "Does it say anything about Timothy?"
"He's alive," Kenji replies, "for now. Plus, there's an attachment. Proof of life, maybe?"
"Why don't you open so we can find out, Suzuki?" Gibbs growls.
Flinching, he brings up a video file after a few clicks. The image of Tim lying on a bed with his eyes closed holds Gibbs' attention until Kenji hits play. Even though it's grainy, the jerky camera focuses on Tim's chest long enough to show a steady rise and fall. So he definitely was breathing when the video was made. The image swings to a television playing the introduction to Jeopardy. Then the image stops goes dead.
"I'm bringing up the time stamp," Kenji says.
"Don't need one." Gibbs taps the screen. "Jeopardy's on every night at seven. So as of – " he checks his watch " – an hour ago, McGee was still alive."
Kenji rubs his chin, considers. "That makes sense."
After rolling his eyes, Gibbs glances to John who's visibly shaken. His cheeks are colorless and perspiration pricks to his forehead. He drops his dinner to the floor, then sinks into a chair. While he buries his head in his hands, Gibbs leans over Kenji's shoulder.
"Send that to Abby," he orders quietly. "Then run a trace on the e-mail from here."
"Already on it, sir."
Nodding, Gibbs places Kenji's takeout container by his laptop. He steals a few French fries and eats them while he lets his brain replay the video. There wasn't much to go on there, but hopefully, Abby can work her magic and get him a solid lead. He won't let this go all the way to the final meet. He can't.
Even though Kenji looks ready to dig into his dinner, he whacks away at the keyboard. When the screen goes black momentarily, he sneaks a bite of his burger, then resumes his typing. Food will have to wait for a lead like this.
Gibbs perches on the desk, studies John as he sips his coffee.
"Does this get any easier?" John asks.
"Not when it's someone you care about."
With an agitated huff, he rises to pace the room. "I thought the second video would be easier to handle than the first, you know? I mean I already know Timothy's been abducted. But, G-d, I just can't stop thinking about what might happen."
Gibbs seizes the opening. "That's all the more reason you need to tell me about who you hired."
John looks up, shakes his head. "It's already in motion, Gibbs. Nothing can stop it at this point. You're just going to have to trust me."
"If I did, Admiral, then I wouldn't have to ask."
