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Hi.
So, that took a while. As in, ten months. More than twice as long as the last update. It is insane to me how quickly time passes when you fall into lazy habits, and remarkable how fast you burn through that time when you're actually trying. My readers, I give you my most sincere apologies. I totally get if I have taken too long for you to remain interested in this story.
But, as per the norm, you all still have been fantastic with your follows and reviews and favorites. And several of you have remained vocal about their desire to see me continue this. This is for all of you.
Disclaimer: The TV show NCIS belongs to CBS.
Tony woke up.
He was wearing a hood. He knew that as soon as he opened his eyes and was met with darkness. Then he felt his hands tied to his sides, and realized he was lying on a mattress. Not a good one, but something. He inhaled, smelled some sort of chemical in the cloth of his hood, and nothing else. He tried to listen, but his ears were ringing. Ringing painfully.
Most of his body hurt, in fact. His neck. His head. His back.
Where as he? How did he get here?
Then it came back to him. The ambush. The trucks. The masked men. The shot he'd been given.
Gordon. Kurt. Matt. All dead. Damnit.
What about Tali? Had they done the same to her car?
Had his daughter died alone?
The thought urged him upward, only to feel a restraint strapped across his chest. He wasn't going anywhere.
"He's awake."
Tony started. The voice was close. Probably no more than ten feet away. The guy hadn't made a sound until then. Or maybe his ears were worse than he thought.
Another voice answered the first. "On my way."
Tony heard footsteps against the floor. Maybe concrete, maybe not. The way they echoed made him think he was in a small room, and just outside was a larger one. Large enough that it couldn't be a house. Parking garage? Hangar?
A second later, while still not close to him, the footsteps faded away. Then a second later, he heard someone sit down next to him. "Anthony DiNozzo. Call me Doctor. I have been treating you since you arrived. Now, tell me: how are you feeling?"
Like I want to stab you, he thought. Like I want to make you pay for killing my friend. For killing those people at the hotel. For threatening my daughter.
Tali.
Was she here? Was she okay? And what about Dad. Was he okay?
On his silence, Doctor sighed lightly. "Anthony, I understand why you don't want to talk. But I am here in a professional manner, and your health is my main concern."
Tony didn't say a word, keeping his mind on the people he loved. Worrying over their fate.
Doctor cleared his throat and stepped to the side of his bed. "Very well. I will refrain from speaking as I run my check list."
The next several minutes were spent in silence, both from Tony and Doctor. He could hear the other man whisper to himself as he checked Tony's pulse, blood pressure and breathing. He did ask Tony if he was suffering from a variety of symptoms, but always took a grunt or shake of the head as an answer.
After he was done, Tony felt Doctor lean back. "By all accounts, it appears to me you are in good health, Anthony. However, as a doctor, I will say that you appear to have bled from your ears, and one appears to have suffered a ruptured drum. I will be keeping an eye on it. I will also say cholesterol is high for your age group. I recommend increasing exercise and perhaps lowering your intake of red meat. Eating salmon instead of steak would be in your long-term benefit."
So would you dying along with every other bastard here, Tony thought, biting his tongue. How many others were here, anyway? There was the quiet guy when he woke up—had he left the room?—and Doctor. No way they were keeping him here with just two people—it'd be sloppy to have only one set of eyes on a prisoner at once. And these people were anything but sloppy.
"I'm afraid that's all for the moment, Tony," Doctor went on, as if he'd spoken. "I'll medically clear you, then the rest will be up to you."
The way he said that last bit made Tony's gut twist. Up to him...
He heard Doctor walk away, his footsteps echoing once again a moment later. Tony was left alone, save for the one guard he knew was still around somewhere close. Watching. Waiting for him to try and escape.
What about Tali? What about Dad?
Gibbs stood in front of a SUV.
The SUV was black, as so many government vehicles were. Or was. This SUV had been set on fire. Burned out. Torched. Not one window remained intact, and what glass remained in some windows had melted, turning opaque the once-clear material. The smell of melted rubber, gas, and fire truck water was like a cloud that hung in the air, suppressing and hiding all other odors and aromas.
But nothing could hide the bones.
There were three sets of them. Human, with bits of burned flesh flesh hanging off them. Heat from the flames had turned the bones dark, almost black, and even from a distance, Gibbs saw the cracks in them. The brittleness that came from being exposed to extreme temperatures for a prolonged period of time.
He could also see the bullet holes. Three dead bodies. One missing passenger. No IDs on any of them.
Was DiNozzo alive, or was he looking at him right now? Had he been taken? If he had, why? Why try to kill him in the air, only to take him on the ground?
How had they known where he was?
"Boss."
Gibbs turned from the car as Bishop and McGee approached out of the crowd of other Agents on scene, processing evidence. "Witnesses?"
"Half a dozen two blocks down the street," Bishop said, her voice calm but tense as she gestured in the direction of the two garbage trucks that still blocked the road. "Three were in their cars, other three were walking. They all saw our SUV pass by, saw those trucks block it in, then heard gunshots. They dialed 911 right after."
"They see anything else?"
Bishop shook her head, her eyes telling him how frustrated she was.
Gibbs looked to McGee.
"Everyone I talked to on this side of the street confirmed hearing automatic fire," McGee said. "But no one saw anything."
Gibbs heard the dubious tone beneath Tim's professionalism. They were in an area that had seen better times, seen safer days. He'd have seen the same things Gibbs had when they arrived: the closed shops, the curtains over the windows in the apartments above. The fact no curious onlookers had gathered on the sidewalk. It was because they'd known. They had known something was going to happen; they'd been tipped off. Tipped off, and threatened. No one was going to talk to them.
Gibbs looked up the street, opposite the garbage trucks they'd already run and found reported stolen mere hours ago. Most of the storefronts were closed for the day, near two hours before their listed hours. He'd bet they'd find spray paint over the camera of the ATM he saw outside a bar, or that the footage of the front door camera at the closed game store had mysteriously vanished.
But there were things street thugs couldn't block. Like the red light at the intersection ahead, or the office building three blocks away.
Or the lone Agent he saw sitting on a house's front steps, staring in Gibbs' direction.
Torres.
"Bishop—find out who owns that office building," Gibbs said. "See if anyone inside saw anything."
"On it." Bishop walked away.
"McGee—see if you can find any bullets. Not easy to keep automatic fire on target. Whoever did this may have missed or overpenetrated. Fill in Duck and Palmer when they get here."
With how long they'd worked together, Gibbs wasn't surprised to see the knowing look in McGee's eyes. "You saw something."
Gibbs gestured with his head to Torres. "Someone."
He left Tim at the scene and went to Torres. It was a decent walk; the scene covered more than three hundred feet of the street and sidewalk. When he at last approached, the younger man stood up. "Gibbs."
"Torres." Gibbs gave him a once over, noted his dark clothes, worn dark jacket, and lack of badge, and focused back on his face. "Bit fast at asking around."
"Just got to a contact's house when I heard about this." Torres nodded to the scene, absently slouching. Changing his posture. Acting like someone else. Someone who didn't belong to a badge. "I made an excuse. Slipped out. Thought I should be here."
Not wanted, Gibbs noted. Should. Big difference. Detachment. Trait that developed in some undercovers. "What's the next thing you should do?"
Torres shrugged. "Don't know. Don't do stuff like this."
"Didn't do. You do now. Help figure out what happened. Trucks are around. Grab a jacket."
Torres frowned. "But I have a jacket."
"Investigators identify themselves, Torres. You aren't when you wear that."
The younger man looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged again. "No difference to me."
He stood to walk away, but Gibbs put a hand on his shoulder, turning him back. "One other thing."
"Yes?"
"When you have something, you tell me without having me pry it out."
"Parents always told me you had to ask for things you wanted."
Gibbs' eye twitched.
Torres shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. "Sorry. That's a little too much of me coming out. It's how I keep cool. Stay in character. Process… This." He looked to the SUV, where the charred bones of fellow NCIS Agents laid waiting for Ducky to to stick them on a gurney.
"I prefer taking down the bastards who did this."
Torres sighed. "Look, I wasn't at my contact's place long before I heard about this. But he was cagey. Too cagey. Smokin', too. Trying to calm himself down. He and his buddies were all in one place, none of them were unarmed."
"They knew something was happening."
"Probably, or they knew something they shouldn't."
"You get to ask what?"
"Tried to, but he wasn't ready to talk to me. Just kept saying something about a truce being called."
"By who?"
"I'm a betting man, Gibbs—and I bet we both know who."
Gibbs' eye twitched again. Yes, yes they did.
"Head to the truck. We still have evidence to collect."
Torres walked away, but Gibbs remained a moment, gazed up again at the windows above the street and the empty roads. All were clear, but Gibbs knew the human eye could only see so much. So far. He was missing information. Not seeing important details. And some he never would.
But if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that anyone who went through the trouble of silencing everyone on a street would never take their eyes completely off it.
And right now, those eyes were watching him.
The apartment was dark.
It was an unrented unit. Empty and without furniture of any kind. Two folding chairs were sat on the apartment's hardwood living room floor, one near the wall, the other a mere five feet closer, just outside the natural light that came in through the living room's two windows. A folding desk was in front of the chair near the wall, and a stand was in front of the chair further in the room. The desk was covered in electronics.
"Get in closer on the older target."
The man in the chair closer to the window gently pressed a button on his camera, and the view zoomed in. The camera caught the federal agent's face clearly, despite the distance. "Your toys working?"
"Have on the others. Keep on him."
The man did as instructed, well used to the job. After another few seconds, one of the computers of his partner dinged.
"Got him," he said. "NCIS Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Age 62. No living children. Two living ex-wives, one deceased."
He chuckled. "Bastard's got the worst luck."
"First wife is deceased as well. Young daughter, too. Cartel."
"Damn."
"Also used to be a sniper for the Marine Corp."
"Any good?"
"Silver Star on his service record says yes." More typing, more clacking of keys. "NCIS file has seven Meritorious Civilian Service Awards. Public records suggest hundreds of investigations in his career, with less than 10% found innocent."
That drew a whistle. "Hell of a detective, then."
"Job title's higher than the others on site. We found our Top."
"Send the report, then. Job's done on our end."
Tali had not said a word in an hour.
Ziva had her held to her chest as tight as she dared. Maybe even a bit more than she should have; Tali's arm wrapped around her bandaged side. She could not help it. It had been months since Ziva had seen her lev. Since she'd held her. Hugged her. Combed her hair. It had been long enough that, in times of distress, of panic, of desperation, it had been hard to picture her face. But now she was here. With her. And that brought her such joy that she discarded her usual checks for hidden threats. Her analyzing of every sound for a sign of an approaching WET team.
She had her daughter.
Oh, how she'd grown. How full her cheeks her. How long her hair had become; how it smelled.
And how she shivered.
Not from cold. No, the chill of America compared to Israel was a temporary discomfort. A thing people joked about being a problem. What Tali shook from was not so easily ignored. It was the chill of fear. The feel of being so close to death's embrace that its phantom touch haunted your dreams.
Ziva clutched Tali tighter, lips brushing the top of her daughter's head as Tali's dirty blonde hair tickled her nose. She should never have left. Should never have went on a one-woman mission to hunt the one responsible for that night. Should never have sent the damned lion back.
The conference room door opened. She did not turn to look at who entered; she knew. Only two people she knew opened doors—moved with such calm confidence in their strength—like that. One died years ago.
He closed the door behind him, stepped over. The chair nearest to her corner seat made little sound as he pulled it out and sat down. Then came the stare. She could see it in her peripheral. A look so casually intense, so very much a mirror of the heart of the man he was, that few could weather it.
She was not one of them at the moment.
Do not say what I fear, she thought. Do not tell me he is dead.
"It was an ambush."
She felt part of Tali's tension fade at the words, at the familiarity of the voice. Almost against her will, Ziva glanced over. There Gibbs was, still in gear, staring at her just as she knew he would be.
"Is he…?" She did not finish the thought, not only for her own sake, but for the sake of the traumatized child in her arms, clinging to her like a vice. Tony could not die. Not when Tali's young mind was still so scared. So close to pain that would never leave her.
Not when her mother was the reason her father had been in danger in the first place.
Gibbs shook his head. "No way to tell. Waiting on Duck and Abby."
He did not say anything more. The operative in Ziva, the Agent, wanted to know details. Wanted to know what happened, how the Agents had died. But Gibbs kept glancing down at Tali, and she knew as well as he that no meaningful conversation could happen with her there. Nor was she about to send her away after reuniting so recently.
After a few long moments, Gibbs leaned forward so that he wasn't sitting so rigidly. "Ziva."
Something in the way he said her name made her focus elsewhere, stare at a spot on the wall. Like she had done something wrong, knew she had, and was preparing for one of Father's verbal lashings.
"Hey, look at me."
She looked back. Gibbs' glare had softened. Marginally. Stern as ever, but knowing. "This isn't on you."
On you. So American. So unlike how she'd spoken in years. "Someone is to blame, Gibbs."
"Yeah. And it's not you."
Tali started to shift in her grasp, as if to wiggle herself further into her arms. Further into her safe world. "Gibbs."
He glanced down at Tali again, then to her. He nodded once, and that was all he needed to say. He stood as if to leave, but lingered. Stood there, back straight, working his jaw. The things he did when he was debating whether his next words were going to cause more harm than good.
She couldn't help the way she shrank back when he leaned down, hands on the table before them. The look in his eyes was furious, but not at her. His proximity making her feel small, but not afraid.
Definitely like Father.
"You don't believe me," he said, quietly. "You don't want to. You want to sit here in your own mind, think about all you've seen. Relive all the moments you know you could have done better. I can't make you do otherwise. But you have to leave this room. If not for you, for her."
Then he left. Off to the next task that needed him. To the Agent that needed guiding. To the next step of his investigation.
Ziva looked to her daughter. Her traumatized, miserable, clinging daughter—and knew he was right. Separating from the world was Ziva's way to deal with things, not Tali's. No, Tali loved play. Animals. Kind people. She had inherited the longings of Ziva's heart. The things Ziva wished she had in her childhood: normalcy.
A secure conference room was not the place for a girl as special as her.
Despite her own need to sit in the corner, out of sight of the windows and away from the doors, Ziva adjusted her hold on Tali and stood up.
This was not the place for Tali to recover, but she knew exactly what was.
The plane was landing.
The man looked out the window as they descended. Outside, the man could see the iconic main terminal of Washington Dulles International Airport. The local hour meant there were still two hours of sunlight left, but its slanted roof was already highlighted by the setting sun. Planes were lined up at the gates, ready for passengers to embark or disembark. Other planes taxied like his own, moving to a gate or to take to the air again. There were dozens of aircraft.
His plane landed. He remained seated as it slowed and taxied its way off the jet runway, right past Dulles Jet Center, and came to a halt in front of his private hangar, attached to the same building. On the other side was a parking lot his hangar shared with DJC.
A pushback tug came out to meet the plane. It drove under the plane's nose, and the driver attached a towbar. Then it pulled the plane into the hangar.
Once inside, the tug left, and the hangar doors closed. Only then did they start to disembark. The man's guards went first, as always. He waited for a beat. Two. On three, he stood and went out the door.
He saw immediately that the hangar was up to his standards. No lights out. No oil stains on the floors. Not even a stray tool left out in the open. The maintenance crews did their job well.
At the bottom of the gangway before him, a motorcade identical to the one he left behind in Israel sat idle. His guards stood near the gangway and the vehicles, waiting on him. They had DoD plates.
There was another man with them, holding a briefcase. A man he knew by files alone. And those files held him in a favorable light.
Time would tell if that remained the case.
"Region Senior."
The Senior straightened, cleared his throat. He gave a nod in greeting, face composed. The man saw the unease in his body language. "Death, sir."
The man descended the gangway and moved for the motorcade. "You're with me, Senior."
"Sir."
They reached the motorcade and entered the center vehicle. One of the man's guards opened the door for him; another opened the other door for the Senior. Once inside, an operator in a booth on the hangar's second level opened the doors on the opposite side of the building, providing a path to the parking lot outside.
As the motorcade began to move, the man said, "Report."
"Target was acquired as planned," the Region Senior—the Operative he'd been in frequent contact with of late—said, voice steady despite the nervous flick of his eyes.
"Was the Objective secured?"
At that, the man saw the Senior bite the inside of his lip.
"He did not have it."
"No, sir."
"What of the other two?"
"I had time—and resources, with the Task Force on lockdown—to put together a single crew. DiNozzo was the primary Target. I had to prioritize."
He did not secure the Father or the Child. "What are their locations?"
"Navy Yard, sir. The daughter, Tali, is in NCIS HQ with her mother; the senior Anthony DiNozzo is in a secure room at Washington Navy Branch."
He did not secure the Father or the Child, and he allowed them to reach their destination—a destination, that, due to military rotations, the man had limited personnel to act.
How regrettable.
"I see."
Beside him, the Region Senior swallowed.
He moved on. "Witnesses to the extraction?"
"Local affiliates saw to resident curiosities," the Senior said. "Operatives are monitoring for individuals that wish to go against warnings."
"Escorts?"
"Disposed of on-site."
"And the team in charge of investigation?"
The Operative opened his briefcase and handed the man a folder. "The Surveillance was in place before the ambush. These are the Agents they witnessed on the ground."
The man opened the folder and went through it as the motorcade was stopped at a security gate. The number of Agents witnessed by Surveillance were significant. To be expected from a large scene where three of their own were killed. Some of the names that went with the snapshots were ones he recognized from various other sources or reports, and some were ones he'd neither seen nor heard of.
Three, however, he recognized without photos. They confirmed what he already knew.
"Agents McGee, Bishop and Gibbs," he said. "The Major Case Response Team. Former co-workers of Targets David and DiNozzo."
"Yes, sir. It has been years since they all worked together." The Senior said the words with familiarity greater than that of the man. In their wide-range of investigative cases, the Major Response Team had unknowingly crossed paths with affiliates of the man on a number of occasions. As Region Senior, he would have been in charge of making sure nothing came back to the Organization.
Today, such precautions would be useless.
The motorcade started to move again, and the man set the folder aside. "If the Objective is still at large, I assume you have begun NOOSE?"
"Yes, sir," the Operative said.
"How far along are you?"
"We're at 22% preparedness as of the bottom of this hour, sir."
The man checked his Rolex. "How long ago did you begin?"
"87 minutes ago."
22% in exactly one hour, accounting for the time since the last information came in. Not ideal. But NOOSE was not a simple operation. "Add more bodies to preparations. I want it ready for Stage 1."
"Sir." The Operative took out a secure phone and began carrying out his instructions.
The man looked out the window, to the web of roads leading out of the airport and into the surrounding planned communities of Reston, Hattontown, and the town of Herndon. Office buildings, malls, restaurants and apartment complexes were everywhere, along with the unmarked government building.
Everything had changed, since he had last been here, so many years ago. On the outside, at least; on the inside it was the same as he remembered. The same politics. The same agendas. Different players.
And now he'd come to haunt them.
How poetic.
"Okay, now careful… Careful…"
A pair of tiny, gloved hands moved a glass over a funnel. The owner of the hands looked up, eyes searching for permission.
"Turn!"
They did.
The earth-colored liquid within the glass went down the funnel, into a large vial, and joined another, emerald fluid. Very quickly, a light green foam filled up the vial, went up the tube, and spilled out over the sides of the vial.
The laughter that followed warmed the chill in Ziva's chest.
"Whoa!" Abby said, dramatically throwing up her arms. "Tali, look what you did!"
Tali copied Abby's stance. "Balagan!"
"Yeah, bal—um… Ziva?"
Despite herself, Ziva cracked a smile. "Mess. She made a mess."
"Yeah!" Abby said, turning back to Tali with that signature smile. "You made such a mess, Tali!"
The girl laughed more, comprehending the tone more than the words.
It was hard to imagine this happy little girl was silent and numb to the world not an hour ago. But that was Abby. She knew how children thought. How to get their innocent, developing minds to focus on something fun in the midst of tragedy. Having Tali gave Ziva a bit of that skill, but no one could match Abby's magic.
Ziva had known what she was doing when she came here.
"Lizkor kedey lenakot, Ahava," Ziva said.
"Ken, Ima."
As her daughter began to clean up after herself, Ziva stepped over from her chair to the resident goth. "Thank you for this, Abby."
The other woman waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, it's just a little hydrogen peroxide, dash of food coloring, soap and a little yeast. Simple stuff every kid needs to mix at some point."
"Yes, but it is much more than that."
Abby smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes, and looked to her computer. "Sometimes, we need distractions."
The monitors were off, for Tali's sake, but Ziva knew Abby was matching dental records of current and former Agents with the bodies downstairs. One, the female, was matched quickly with Janet Gordon, a single veteran of four years. Abby had matched the second right after Ziva had come down to visit—Kurt Mathis, single father and nine-year NCIS veteran.
His child was now fatherless, alone.
And Ziva was responsible.
"Yes, we do," she said.
They didn't speak for a time as Tali kept cleaning, and Abby discreetly checked on the search while Tali had her back turned. It felt like there was little to say. In Ziva's opinion, anyway. Circumstance made the general joy of seeing people she loved feel faint. Distant. Unimportant compared to the task at hand. The shadow that now loomed over her every interaction.
Death.
She had led that unseen monster right to these people. It was her fault this happened. Her fault those Agents were dead—they along with so many others, just for her being close.
She should have let them kill her.
Maybe she should now.
Slowly, hesitantly, a gloved hand entered her field of vision. It went up, then down once, twice. Then away.
She blinked. "What was that for?"
"Just checking," Abby said, tone a touch embarrassed. "You weren't blinking."
She had not noticed. "I tend not to as I think."
"You didn't do that before."
Assassins were not hiding themselves in drains to get a shot at her back then. "Things change."
Abby paused, usual slight smile fading. "Yeah…"
Then she hugged her.
"But I'm still glad you're here."
Ziva hesitated out of instinct, of feeling trapped by someone larger than herself. But she returned the hug, because no matter the fact the gesture was simple, or unasked for, or not what would banish the voices in Ziva's head—it was genuine coming from Abby. And genuine was what Ziva needed, and human contact was what she craved, even if she didn't want to admit it.
Though now it was dragging on.
"Abby," Ziva said. "You can let go now."
Immediately, the goth let go and straightened. "I'm sorry I wasn't upstairs when you came in."
"Abby," she waved her off, "it's fine."
"No it's not. I haven't seen you in forever. Well, I mean other than the FaceTimes we had. Or the video messages you sent when it was too early for me to return them. Or the occasional picture you sent. You know what I mean!"
Ziva smiled, faintly. "I know. But I wish we were meeting in Israel. On my farm. Without all… this."
Abby frowned, and her eyes became downcast. She knew, too
They focused once more on Tali, letting their serious talk fade away to listen to the pleasant happiness only children seemed to experience.
They both dreaded the moment when the computer would signal it had found a match.
The motorcade pulled into the warehouse.
It was an old structure. Abandoned long before he purchased it for use by the Organization. They had fixed its broken windows, its cracking walls and leaky roof. But little was stored within. It was a holding site. A secure location outside the Compound that could be adapted for a variety of uses.
The motorcade came to a stop, and a guard opened his door. He stepped out, looked right, then left. Operatives were there. Ones outside his detail. They were all dressed in suits, marking high rank.
None were at ease.
The Region Senior approached his side. He gestured to the Operative closest to them—a slightly shorter man with a barrel-like build. "Sir," the Senior said, "your Region Second."
"Sir," the Second said, nodding. The man noted his steady voice, despite the apprehension in his eyes. Field experience.
"Target DiNozzo," he said.
"We have him in there," said the Region Senior, pointing to an interior window at the left of the garage.
He looked, saw the window leading out onto the floor of the warehouse. It was empty, save for a storage container in the center, watched over by marksmen on the catwalks above, and flanked by other security personnel and two medical. A tent was set up in front of the container, containing beneath it a mobile hospital.
The man was about to begin moving toward the container, when the Region Senior's phone rang. He answered wordlessly, as the man did.
The man did not like the way the Region Senior's face grew strained.
The Region Senior's face grew more and more distressed as he listened to his phone. He worked his jaw, rubbed his temple, ran a hand through his short hair. All within ten seconds.
"Understood," he said, then hung up. He looked to the man, eyes apprehensive. "Sir, there's a complication."
Gibbs didn't have time to think.
Ever since he got back from the ambush site, he'd been assaulted by Agents that Leon had assigned to assist in all his open investigations. Only no one had told them what they had already processed and what they hadn't, or they hadn't read their files. Agents were telling him that Diana Woods' house was clean. That the evidence they collected from Caine Saunders' apartment might close three other open cases on their desks. That the financials of Petty Offers Johnson and Bradley seemed suspicious.
They were a mess, as hastily put-together teams tended to be in the first 24 hours. He was whipping Agents into place, putting them on the trails he needed blazing, pulling others off the ones they'd walked already, but he needed time to get everyone on the same page. Time he didn't have.
He needed coffee.
As McGee, who'd broken through the ranks of Agents, was informing him of what bullets were used to kill their fellow Agents—standard 5.56×45mm NATO—Bishop stood from her desk. She walked up behind McGee, prevented from approach by Quinn and two other Agents.
But he caught her eye. Saw the glint in it.
She had something.
"Bishop," he said, and that quieted McGee; he knew when something bigger arrived.
"Boss," she said. "Remember that office? Turns out, it's been empty for weeks. No renter, no business. But the owner doesn't like where his building is. Says there's too much petty theft."
"You got something?"
"He has cameras on the third floor watching the street, Gibbs. And they never go off."
"You did not secure a witness."
"It wasn't a witness; a camera," the Region Senior clarified, voice quiet. "Abandoned building. Few blocks away. It oversaw the ambush."
"Did you not mark all potential video sources?"
"It was abandoned."
The man's eye twitched.
Footage had been taken of the attack. Footage that would identify the type of vehicles used. Reveal the number of attackers. Perhaps, even, the identity of some. And that was not even considering that, with the make of their vehicles compromised, anyone with moderate intelligence could use the DC city surveillance system to track their movements. Which would lead them right here. To a holding site.
This was beyond a simple mistake. This was lazy. Laziness was not tolerated. Not by Analysts. Not by Operatives. Not my Seniors.
There were rules about this. No matter how favorable your file read.
"You know what this means," the man said.
The Senior nodded, swallowing audibly.
"Set about disposing of this facility," he said, voice calm and cold. "We are to evacuate to the secondary site."
Tension left the frame of the Senior. Relief at what he would see as mercy. "Yes, Death. I will begin preparations immediately." The Senior took out his phone, placing it to his ear and stepping into a side room.
The man locked eyes with one his guards and gave a single, shallow nod.
The guard followed.
"Region Second," the man said, turning.
"Yes, sir?" the Second asked, voice still steady. Eyes still apprehensive. The man caught understanding them.
"How long have you been Second of this Region?"
"Six years, sir."
"Long enough to know what the Senior knows."
"Yes, sir."
"And you have the same contacts. Know the same faces."
"Yes, sir."
"NOOSE?"
"I receive updates every hour, sir."
The man hummed, satisfied. He snapped a finger.
Three loud cracks from an FN Five-Seven sounded out from the side room. A thud followed. The local Operatives flinched, the sound and the violence startling them.
The man did not blink.
"I congratulate you on your promotion. Do as I instructed your predecessor."
Tony jolted.
He'd heard gunshots. Far off. Muffled. Barely audible over his ringing ears. But gunshots. Gibbs? No, no that would be too easy. And no shots followed.
The guy in here with him got up, though. Tony heard him shift, then move. Large boots on an unyielding floor that gave off muted thuds. Definitely not pavement, and definitely being disguised. Something on top of metal?
He heard hushed voices talking, but couldn't hear the words. They spoke for a while, then went quiet as a phone rang. A few seconds later, someone called out, "Pack it up!"
Then everything got loud.
He heard people moving heavy equipment outside. Metal wheels rolling away. Crates being closed and picked up. Instructions being shouted out from somewhere further away and… Above?
Someone stepped into his room, the echo of their feet ceasing when they got within a certain distance. "My apologies, Anthony," Doctor's voice, "but this will sting."
He felt something cold rub against his skin, then the familiar prick of a needle.
Damn it.
"I assure you," Doctor went on, his voice growing distant. Walking away. "You will be taken care of while you are unconscious."
Not my top concern, he thought, as his arm started to numb from the shot.
Déjà vu took hold as the numbness spread, and he felt his head grow light, his mind foggy. Was this bad for his health, being knocked out so much? Ducky would probably say it was.
As he laid there, waiting for the drug to take to him oblivion again, he felt someone next to him.
Not heard; his hearing was getting worse. Felt. Like chilled air on a hot day. Like a big cat staring him down, wondering if he'd be a nice snack.
Someone was standing over him.
"I understand my time is limited." The person sounded like a hammer. Big, blunt. Strong. "But, as you sleep, you are going to consider my only question for you: where is my drive?"
Just before he was sedated again, Tony smiled under his hood.
Tali had picked up too much from Tony.
Her daughter was sound asleep, yet much of the mess she made had not been cleaned. Ziva had prided herself on teaching Tali the value of cleanliness—or, rather, organization—as soon as she understood speech.
She had forgotten much in two months.
Ziva tossed the disposables in Abby's trash, including the remains of the foam she created with Tali. Toys were next, almost all Abby's, though Ziva had to admire the creativity behind some of the poses Tali had put them. Some were drinking at a pond. Others were running through fields.
Then there was Bert the Farting Hippo.
He was turned over on his back, legs straight up to the ceiling. His permanently-open mouth looked made it appear as if he were screaming. And Gibbs the Lion was the reason, as he was laid on the hippo's throat, as if biting down.
Nature documentaries would be her undoing.
Ziva went over and grabbed Gibbs off Bert. She reached down to grab the other toy, but slowed. Froze entirely.
Out of the corner of her eye, a thread hung from Gibbs.
A thread of a different color than she used in making it.
She turned the lion over in her hands, looking to the left side of its chest. The seam there was tightened to the point it stretched the fabric.
Had Tony…?
She made her way to Abby, who had grown busy in the other room with the other work required of her for the investigation. "Knife."
The taller woman raised her eyebrows. "What?"
"Knife. Please."
Abby moved on the second request, stepping to a drawer in behind her and retrieving a small, folded pocket knife.
Ziva took the offered knife and flipped it open. Then she neatly cut the seam on the stuffed toy, exposing the stuffing within.
She did not bother to hold back a gasp.
Buried deep within toy stuffing, so deep Ziva had not felt it when she picked it up, was the flash drive that started this entire mess.
Shout out to the guest reviewer who correctly called the twist. Good on you reading into what I wrote (or rather, didn't write).
There you have it. Ten months of waiting, and finally an update. I know it likely wasn't worth such a wait, and I know it's difficult to wait so long for a chapter that lasts about an hour. I'm hard at work trying to make sure the next one doesn't take anywhere near as long as this (I know you've heard similar things to that before). Just have patience with me; I'll be back.
The credit song for this chapter is "Secession Studios - Annihilation" Despite the title, this song feels, to me, more suited for the building up of a story's big bad. Something that showcases just a bit of who they are, what they are willing to do. Perhaps it's a bit too grand in scale for this, but in my long search, it was the best song I could find, and I do think it suits Death's character and actions near the end.
Thank you all for reading. If you enjoyed reading, please share or recommend this to a friend or friends. And if you really enjoyed reading, please leave a comment. They are the lifeblood of all writers, and they do not take long to leave.
See you soon.