Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the bad guys and the typos.
Warnings : Rated T for violence and language.
Author's Note : As always, thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, followed and reviewed this story so far. Your support is amazing.
I know I promised a good Tony chapter this time, but (yes, there's always a but) this scene needs to come first. After re-doing my outline, I realized I had to bring in Ziva and what she's been up to for the ending to make sense. So Tony and his dad come back next chapter, promise. Apologies for lying in the last author's note.
But I hope you enjoy this one all the same.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
7:45pm – 241 23rd St. N, Gateway District – Washington, DC –
In the passenger seat of a Range Rover, Ziva David checks on her target through her binoculars. All of her traded intel and hounded contacts led her here. To the unassuming ranch at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. With its boarded up windows and missing mailbox, it seems to be the most likely candidate for next week's foreclosure auction.
Which means – she watches the surrounding houses' light flicker on – it should be deserted.
But her cohort does not share her view.
As the Americans say, beggars cannot be pickers.
How she ended up here, working alongside an ex-Mossad double agent is something she prefers not to think about. Contact after contact told her of the freelancer hired to hunt down – and eliminate, if necessary – Tim's captors. It didn't take much to reach out and even less, to join him.
Now she dodges Barrows' calls, choosing instead to speak to Kenji because he doesn't ask questions. She feeds them just enough information to keep them going, but leave her one step ahead. Even though she knows this mission will end her tenure with NCIS, she cannot live with her friend's blood on her hands.
The ends to which she will go to protect her make-shift family surprise even her.
From the driver's seat, Malachi Melemed turns to her. The dying twilight catches in his deep-set eyes, turning his feature ghoulish. When his lips pull into a vicious smile, a chill races down her spine. This must be what it feels like to make a deal with the Devil.
G-d forgive me.
"Shall we go?" he asks, loading a clip in his back-up weapon.
"You are satisfied they are here?" she replies, looking back through her binoculars.
The windows are still dark, even as the shadows invade the world outside.
"This is the place I expect them to be. We need to move before the streetlamps turn on."
She gives a half-nod. "Then we will leave now."
Slipping her binoculars away, Ziva retrieves an assault rifle from the backseat. It weighs heavy and foreign in her hands, but the cold metal still comforts her. Malachi mimics the motion, then slithers his tall, lithe frame out of the car. Pushing open her door, Ziva follows him into the soupy air. It threatens to suffocate her as she stalks across the lawn, her weapon raised.
Mid-way to the porch, Malachi gestures with his free hand toward the front door. After she nods, he slinks around the back of the house. While they don't have the manpower for a full-scale assault, they have the advantage of surprise…and their training.
Ziva creeps up the steps, not even feeling a floorboard creak under her weight. She tries the front door, shocked that it's unlocked. Pressing her lips together, she eases it open slightly and peers inside.
As far as she can tell, the house is empty.
She counts to thirty, gives Malachi enough time to get into position. Then she sneaks inside.
The house is smaller than she expects.
As soon as she enters, there is a tight living room with a pile of cracked plastic, bits of fabric and pieces of metal. Carnage she doesn't understand, and doesn't have time to make sense of. Frowning, she moves past the mess into the kitchen. That space does not look much better with its smashed cabinets and open refrigerator. Rotten food spills to the floor, making Ziva cringe.
"Clear," she whispers.
Rolling on the balls of her feet, she skulks back through the living room into a tiny hallway. At its end are a trio of miniscule bedrooms and a bathroom. She finds Malachi in one of the bedrooms.
"There is no one here," he announces.
She relaxes slightly, cradles the weapon to her chest. "Perhaps we did not have quality information."
Shaking his head, he rises from his crouch. "That I do not believe. They were here."
He flicks on a flashlight, using the beam to trace through the darkness. Bits of dust dance, twisting and spinning through the air like a blizzard. He moves through the room, searching the corners.
"It is empty," he says like she does not see it too.
"Should we try a different location?"
"They were here. That much I know."
He pushes past her to head into another bedroom, so she follows him. As soon as they arrive at the door, she notices the deadbolt on the door frame. It's to keep someone in, not out. She trails Malachi into the room, remaining silent as they both scan the tight space.
Wooden planks cover the only window, smothering any last bit of daylight that might sneak inside. Malachi's flashlight rakes across the rough floorboards, stopping dead in the center of the room.
The red smear almost glows in the beam.
Ziva gasps. "That is blood."
Malachi gives a distracted half-nod, crouches to touch the stain. "It is cold. This person, whoever they are, left long, long ago. But someone was certainly here."
"It could be Tony's," she surprises quietly.
"This Tony?" Malachi shoots her a sideways glance. "He was the one taken with McGee, correct?"
"Yes. He was recovered a few hours ago, but I – "
"Then this does matter."
Ziva's chest tightens, but she wants tell him how much Tony matters in his own right…not just his relation to Tim. But since he was already rescued, arguing this moot point will not help them find Tim any faster. But it still hurts to hear Malachi refer to her teammate referred to as nothing more than a complication. To him, the paying job is the only important one.
Rising to his feet, Malachi rakes the flashlight through the room again. It stops on a small, white strip of fabric. He bends to find pick it up. When he draws closer to Ziva, his features twist in confusion.
"Ermenegildo Zegna. What do you think it means?"
A laugh dies in her throat. "It is a man who makes suits."
"What is that? Some sort of code?" Malachi cocks his head, displays the tiny piece of cloth. "Like a riddle?"
"No, he is man who makes expensive suits. Tony likes him very much." Ziva pinches the bridge of her nose. "He told me how wonderful his new suit was yesterday morning. So perhaps he left a clue."
"Then we can conclude Tony and McGee were kept here. It is likely they were separated here as well."
Ziva shifts her weight, stare at Malachi. "What is next?"
He directs the flashlight back over the room. "Let us split to search the house. Then we shall decide our next move."
Without another word, Ziva slips back into the living room. She pulls the flashlight from her jacket pocket, flicks it on. Under the tunnel of light, shadows slip out from places they should not be. She moves to the pile of scrap metal, picks her way through it. It does not take long for her to figure out it is the remains of four cots, two folding chairs and a card table.
As she tosses the useless pieces aside, a piece of paper flutters from the ruins.
It is a small map, bisected by a river's outline.
Squinting in the low light, she can barely decipher the faded script.
Philadelphia Naval Yard.
Could this be where they will go?
She holds the paper as though it might vanish from her grasp. The edges wrinkle in her fingers, but he still clings tight to the only lead to her missing teammate. Her heart thuds in her chest as she debates what to do next.
To stick with Malachi or to return to the agency that took her in.
But it is not the agency she loves. It is the people. And if her parents taught her anything, it was to protect those you love no matter the costs. Even in this, her new life - away from her father and away from Mossad – she cannot escape their influence.
She slides her hands into her pocket, reaching for her phone. One call to NCIS would be enough to send Barrows and his team to rescue Tim. But with the agency comes rules, regulations, protocol. Red tape and missteps that could end up getting her friend killed.
Shifting her weight, she runs her thumb over the paper.
Rules and protocol are against her very nature. She was bred for efficiency, results. The outcome - not the process - is the only endgame. And that is to ensure Tim's survival, regardless of the costs. If it sends her back to Israel and Mossad, so be it.
Her friend will live. And right now, that is all that matters.
Her hand releases her phone as she crosses the room.
"Malachi," she calls quietly, "I have found something."