A/N: I want to thank everyone for the great reviews so far! I'm sorry things are moving so slowly – meaning both the updates and the storyline. I've included a short (really short) teaser at the end of the chapter – hopefully this will mollify some of you out there. If you don't want to know what's coming, don't read anything after the author's note at the bottom. Well, enjoy!
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Growling under her breath, Summers stormed into the director's office, with Bowen in tow.
She'd called the boss six times. Six times, in the last two hours – and he hadn't picked up.
Damn smug idiot.
How was she supposed to warn him that some sycophant was out for his blood if he didn't answer his phone?
And Forrester… well, she'd tried Forrester's phone. She'd screamed incoherently (causing Bowen to jump a foot) when Forrester's desk started to ring merrily.
Hence the reason she and Bowen were marching into the director's office.
Without knocking.
Maybe that was a tactical error?
Director Katie Hollinder was a very self aware woman in her late forties. Her graying hair, pulled into a severe bun and the round, thin rimmed reading glasses perched on her nose made her look like a stern school teacher.
Hollinder raised an eyebrow at their intrusion.
"Is someone dead, Agent Summers?" That particular tone, pre-Boss from Hell experience, would have made Summers' knees tremble.
"Um – er, no." Instead, she was able to keep most of her composure and stammer out the relevant answer.
"Maybe someone is dying, then, Agent Bowen?" The left eyebrow rose to join the right one.
"Not exactly." Bowen's voice was smooth and stutter-free. Summers would have been envious of his calm if he hadn't looked pale enough to frighten a ghost.
"Ah." The Director leaned forward, over her desk. "Then I suppose there is some other reason you didn't knock politely?" Much like Summers, Hollinder's native accent had a habit of surfacing when she was especially excited. In fact, the older woman's thick, slow western drawl was twice as frightening as Summers' Louisiana staccato.
"Um, yes, actually." Bowen glanced at Summers, clearly inviting her to continue. She declined – DiNozzo had inured her to a lot of scary things, but the dragon lady could still strike fear into her heart.
"We found a letter, unaddressed, but clearly concerning Agent DiNozzo."
The Director's expression turned stormy, and Summers hastily presented the letter in question. Bowen wasn't doing this right – the goal was to avert her anger, not irritate her further.
"It's the letter – you know…" Summers voice failed her. She didn't want the Boss to die. She was too young for him to die.
What the hell? She thought, I hate the arrogant ass. I don't need him here.
But, then, neither did she get along with her teammates. Nor did she write more than one report for any given case. She didn't play poker, or basketball, or capture the flag.
She couldn't shoot lefty to save her life. Jujitzu wasn't in her skill set. She never followed anyone's orders unquestioningly. No-one hit her and lived to talk about it.
Well – not before DiNozzo, anyway.
Maybe she did like him – er, having him around, just a little bit.
As Hollinder scrutinized The Letter tensely, Summers realized that DiNozzo was actually a good boss. Sure he was difficult and juvenile, but he got the job done.
And she trusted him.
Therefore, DiNozzo was not going to die – the Writer's record be damned.
"Am I to assume," Hollinder's clear, no-nonsense alto broke into her thoughts, "Am I to assume that you think whoever wrote this letter intends to kill Agent DiNozzo."
Summers looked at Bowen, who, surprisingly enough, met her worried expression with one of his own. They both nodded.
"Very well. Take the letter down to Mackey – I want him to confirm that the letter is genuine. Then you are to inform Senior Agent DiNozzo that his team is back on rotation."
Bowen shot her a telling glare.
Summers gulped. Why did she have to tell him?
** * ** * ** * **
NCIS Washington D.C.
Swearing under his breath, Gibbs pressed into the smooth wood a little harder than necessary. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up with an un-even job.
He just couldn't bring himself to care.
Maybe that was the bourbon's fault.
Even as he thought it, though, he knew that wasn't it. His mind went back to The Case – and all the sudden he cared again. Damn it.
The bourbon was supposed to fix that. He downed another shot, throwing down the sandpaper. It wasn't doing him any good tonight, anyway.
Normally, he used it as a tool – a tool to help him compartmentalize. To help him stay sane. And when it didn't work…
He racked his still recovering post-amnesia brain. Images assaulted him.
Oh, right. When working himself to exhaustion didn't work, he'd drink himself to a stupor. He glared at the almost empty bottle of bourbon. When drinking didn't work, there was DiNozzo.
DiNozzo who grounded him – albeit, probably not intentionally. Hell, who was he kidding? Who knew what DiNozzo did on purpose and what was just plain dumb luck?
He finished off the bottle in one great gulp.
DiNozzo should be here. Not Langer.
Gibbs shut his eyes, sure that the faint thump-thump of feet on his stair case was imagined. Even if it wasn't, his rational mind (amazing that it still functioned) told him that it couldn't be DiNozzo.
"Jethro"
It wasn't.
Groaning, Gibbs refused to look at his most recent pain-in-the-ass. He shouldn't have to deal with this in the peace of his own basement.
"A little late, aren't you Tobias?"
The case had been open for about a week. Usually, the FBI was breathing down his neck in a matter of hours.
"Was out of town."
Gibbs snorted.
"Have a nice vacation?" Yeah, right. Whether or not Tobias' trip was official, it sure as hell wasn't pleasure.
"Expected to." The FBI agent chucked dryly. "Turns out the competition out there is every bit as bad as you."
Gibbs raised an eyebrow.
"That so, huh?" He hunted around for another glass or at least an acceptable substitute, then remembered that he was out of bourbon. "That why you came back?"
"Actually, heard you got an exciting case." He paused, as if trying to decide whether to be serious or try to lighten the mood a bit. Gibbs was pretty sure he looked like hell. "Came to lend a hand."
"Don't have anything new to tell you."
"Yeah, I heard there's less to go on than last time."
And that stung, because there was.
One letter, one body – and then an unexpected break from the pattern. There was no letter gloating – no threats or claims to a new victim.
This was unheard of – the killer always gloated about his kills, both before and after he'd done the deed.
It was almost like he just left.
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NCIS San Diego
Very Irate Senior Special Agent Tony DiNozzo marched up the officer on desk duty in the dingy police station. He and Forrester had been waiting patiently for over twenty minutes. Which was a completely unnecessary waste of his time – honestly, how hard was it to fetch whoever was investigating the coffee shop hold up?
Of course, Tony really shouldn't have expected any great show of competency here, after witnessing the complete pandemonium at the crime scene. He grumbled a bit as his phone buzzed again before he could address the desk sergeant. He knew without looking at the screen that it was Summers. That would be her eleventh call in one day – oh, yes, he was counting.
These phone calls – checking up – were definitely something he was going to train out of her.
Irritated, he firmly pressed the 'reject' button and started towards the desk sergeant again.
Only to be knocked away as a body collided solidly with him.
Forrester was there in an instant, manhandling the offending party to his feet. Squinting from his position on the floor, Tony could just barely make out the janitor's tag on the front of the man's gray cover-all.
For a hazy half-second, the floored agent could have sworn he knew the janitor from somewhere – but the moment passed when he noticed a rather gruesome scar marring the right side of the red-head's face. A rather unforgettable combination, that.
With only a few warning grumbles, he pulled himself to his feet and refocused on accosting the desk sergeant.
He never noticed the janitor watching him avidly – almost hungrily – and Forrester was certainly too busy glaring at the sluggish Officer Mahooney.
**
After another twenty minutes, DiNozzo stalked out of the completely lousy excuse for a PD, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. Even Forrester was giving him a little more space.
Tony had 'talked' with five separate officers, before he was able to intimidate one into looking in evidence for his wallet – which, sure enough, was there. Apparently, he had dropped it during the struggle – yeah, right – and it had been turned in by a grateful witness.
More likely, the robber-wanna-be had tossed it on his rather rushed flight away.
Still, he did have it back now, albeit minus his badge.
Tony turned his head, about to snap at his trailing agent for – well, for trailing, actually, but thought better of it.
It would have been such a Gibbs thing to do.
His stomach clenched at the thought of his former mentor. Sighing, the NCIS agent continued to march resolutely toward his car.
Things were rough – the Coffee Crazy, Assassins' Den, and the Letter Writer, all dumped on him – and his team was still not housetrained.
Gibbs, Pre-Mexico Gibbs – hell, probably even Post-Mexico Gibbs – could handle things here without breaking a sweat. All Tony would have to do is make sure the man stayed sane. Make sure he didn't work himself into a hospital bed or, more likely, a grave somewhere.
But, here, now, working a case that wasn't his, another that shouldn't be his, and a third that was his, he felt very alone.
Until a solid hand landed on his shoulder.
Carefully suppressing a start, Tony looked up at Forrester, who was regarding him with a strangely stalwart expression.
"Boss?"
Right.
He was The Boss. Three people were counting on him – on and off the field.
He fished his keys out of his pocket.
He'd learned how lead from one of the best. He knew how to fight crime – he could do this job.
"You a coffee man, Forrester?"
And he'd tackle it, one case at a time.
** * ** * ** * **
Forrester growled as his boss jostled him again.
They were sitting in a dark, gloomy, unreasonably crowded bar doing unauthorized surveillance. According to the boss, the FBI hadn't managed to wrangle a warrant out any of the local justices. If the FBI couldn't do it, there was no way in hell NCIS would be able to get one.
So, here they sat (drinking because they weren't there officially) scanning the crowd for professional killers – his boss nudging him every now and again to point out something or another.
All together, it was not a particularly relaxing evening after an afternoon of hunting down the Boss's coffee heist culprit.
Ignoring a rather slutty looking blonde to his left, Forrester glanced at his watch – 7:03 p.m. Still kind of early for the bar to be so full, but apparently there was some sort of event going on. He hadn't really paid attention to the specifics. He already knew full well that he would sit here with his boss until DiNozzo was ready to go back to the office.
Consciously not sighing, he leaned back against the bar, taking a sip of his beer and scanning the crowd again.
It had been a remarkably long day. What had started out as a trip to this particular bar to talk to the owner, with a quick side stop for lunch, had turned into a nightmare.
First, the police station. Forrester had learned quite a lot about his new boss during that particular holocaust – foremost being DiNozzo's tolerance for incompetence, which happened to be zilch. Heads had rolled. After witnessing Officer Murdoch's very near decapitation, Forrester swore that his boss would never, ever catch him being incompetent at anything.
Even if that meant living at the gun range, learning to shoot with just his pinky.
When they had finally retrieved the missing wallet – sans the badge, a fact which pissed DiNozzo off so much the vein in his forehead started to pulse – the boss seemingly decided to adopt the Coffee Crazy Case.
And so they hared off to confiscate the coffee shop security tapes and talk to a few of the lingering, shell-shocked witnesses.
And now they were here – long past the point of pretending they were doing something useful.
Forrester had a sneaking suspicion that DiNozzo just wasn't ready to face Director Hollinder yet.
Or Summers, either, if the amount of ignored calls meant anything.
On his right, DiNozzo shifted and Forrester glared to forestall the 'nudge' he just knew was coming his way. Instead, the boss just raised an eyebrow and cocked his head towards the nearest exit.
Finally.
Time to face the music.
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A/N: Sorry for the wait, you guys, and the fact that this chapter is a little on the short side. Not my best work, but it brings us a bit closer to the inevitable clash of the Titans and hopefully gives you a feel for the 'relationship' Tony has with each team member. Please read and review – I'm very interested in what you guys want to see in the next chapter.
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Warning – If you don't want to know what might happen later, don't read. This is just a little tidbit that I've written, but not placed into a chapter yet. Will probably happen in the next two or three chapters.
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Coming Soon:
"Uhm, Tony?" Jimmy watched as Tony paced somewhat unsteadily back and forth across autopsy. Of course, it was the maniacal grin that concerned him. "Being threatened by a notorious serial killer is a bad thing."
"Nope." Tony stopped pacing. "Now we know who his next victim is."
"You know it isn't really your case." If Jimmy knew how to be tactful, he would definitely be using that skill now.
Tony growled a little, listing to one side. The man really needed to sit down before he fell down.
"The lead investigator is going to fly out here, you know."
Tony just grunted.
"That means Gibbs."
Tony sighed and leaned against one of the autopsy tables.
"Jimmy," Tony's voice was hoarse and cracking with emotion. What kind of emotion, Jimmy wasn't sure, but he didn't really think it was a good kind. "Gibbs is gonna bulldoze right in here like he usually does. But he'll need me to help him solve this." Tony gulped, swallowing something. "I can't let him put me under protection detail."
And Jimmy understood.
As much as he worried about Tony – what with an angry serial killer out for his blood – Jimmy knew that Tony couldn't just sit by and let his old team hunt for a murder that got away on his watch.
Yeah, Jimmy understood – he just didn't know what to do about it.