As promised, Palmer stayed in the car when they arrived at their destination. The Metro cops had seen a man fitting their suspect's description near the World War II Memorial on the National Mall, but those officers were gone by the time Tony pulled up on 17th Street NW between the oval of lighted pillars and the towering Washington Monument.

The rain was still coming down in sheets that waved like linens on a clothesline thanks to the fierce winds blowing outside the car. Lightning slashed at the dark night sky, ripping it open and making it bleed bright rivulets of light amid angry booms of thunder.

The Mall was completely deserted.

"Speaking of scary," Jimmy said softly, looking around the popular tourist spot and not finding a single person. "I've never seen it like this."

"Me neither," Tony said. His eyes scanned the tree-lined space for signs of either his team or their suspect, but his gaze kept straying to the middle of the eerie scene.

The Reflecting Pool looked like it was boiling.

Rain slammed down from the thunderous skies so hard that the surface was more witches' cauldron than calm mirror for the looming monument nearby. Thunder rumbled again overhead, the growling of a great beast in a mood as black as the starless sky.

Tony pulled his cell and was about to call McGee when he saw two figures near the northern arch of the war monument, heads bowed to the rain but unmistakably his agents.

There was another ominous rumble from the skies, and Tony turned to Palmer. "I mean it," he said firmly, unsure whether the sick twisting in his stomach was because of the surreal nature of the deserted Mall or something else. "You stay in the car, no matter what, Palmer."

Jimmy nodded, looking a bit apprehensive himself. But he stayed as Tony slid out of the low-slung classic car, parked closer to the southern arch near a stand of trees.

The agent was soaked within seconds, but he simply walked toward the ring of pillars, his hand hovering near his gun as some finely tuned instinct made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. His teammates weren't looking at him.

But someone was watching him.

He could feel it.

He turned back toward the street, eyes scanning the semi-darkness until he spotted a figure in the copse of trees he had just walked past. He drew his weapon and yelled, his firm voice rising above the wind and rain, "Federal agent! Freeze!"

The crack of gunfire split through the air like an imitation clap of thunder, and Tony heard the bullet whizz by, missing his head by mere inches. He dropped immediately to the ground and then wasted no timing in scrambling for cover, ending up behind the pillar engraved with the great state of Nevada, and he was glad the designers of the monument had chosen thick granite towers to represent the states and territories making up the U.S. at the time of the war.

Tony stopped thinking about architecture altogether as two more shots cracked across the surreal solitude of the Mall. He strained to hear something, anything to tell him that his agents were okay—and not the targets of those bullets—but all he could hear was the spraying of the fountains at the either end of the oval, their steady babbling nearly muted by the driving rain crashing into the pool and splatting against granite.

DiNozzo took a few slow breaths to calm his racing heart and he ignored the tickle in the back of throat that signaled an impending coughing fit. He tilted his face up to the sky, keeping low behind his stone shield, and he swallowed hard, telling his body that would have to do for now. He didn't have time for hacking up a lung—not when someone was shooting at him and the status of his agents was so uncertain.

Looking up into its raging madness, Tony processed somewhere in the back of his mind that it was one spectacular storm. A flash of lightning streaked sideways across the sky, a perfect pitchfork parallel to the Earth below. More flashes came in such quick succession, clustered so closely together that it lit the night sky, illuminating the dark thunderheads as clearly as if it were daytime—but only for a moment.

Then darkness reigned again as the clouds charged themselves for the next powerful volley.

Tony waited, crouching in his position and wishing like hell he wasn't so far from his team. It was killing him not knowing if those shots he had heard had found their marks and were now killing his agents.

He shook off ghostly visions of the pair bleeding out into the wet grass and decided he needed to move—now. He needed to get to his team, even if it meant breaking cover to do it. But he knew better than to go rushing out into the open, so he inched up slowly, sneaking a peek over the wall supporting the tall pillars—only to be rewarded with a bullet zinging by an inch from his face.

DiNozzo dropped back down, gripping the edge of the granite with his left hand to keep from toppling over in his haste to get back into cover. The next bullet slammed into the stone, sending shards flying. Tony barely felt the jagged edge rip across the back of his hand, but he knew from the sudden warmth of the blood flowing down his wrist that the cut was deep.

The next volley of gunfire came from his right, and the shots were so close together that Tony knew they had come from two weapons. He heaved a sigh of relief even though his hand had started to sting like hell. His team was okay—at least okay enough to be firing back at the dirtbag. He knew he should be firing, too, but the blood pouring from his wound needed his attention first.

There were no more shots—from either side—as Tony wound a handkerchief around his palm and tied it off with his teeth, pulling the hand up and resting it against his chest, above his heart. He wondered dizzily when he had started carrying the things, ultimately blaming his cold and refusing to admit it was probably because Gibbs always had a handkerchief in his pocket.

Like the one he had offered Tony to wipe the gore off his face the day Kate died. Tony would never admit—or understand why—he kept the stained cloth folded into a tiny square in the back of his sock drawer, a macabre memento of a day he would do anything to forget. If he ever allowed himself to think about it, he would probably realize that while he had lost Kate just as suddenly as he'd lost his mother, at least this time someone had stuck around to make sure he was okay.

"Probie!" he shouted into the wind-whipped rain, knowing McGee and Ziva had already given away their position with their gunfire. DiNozzo didn't care if he gave away his position—he would rather the shooter come after him anyway.

"What?"

The low voice from a few feet away made Tony jump, and he realized the two agents had been moving toward him, using the monument's stone features as cover.

"You two okay?" Tony asked, studying what he could see of them in the dim lighting of the fountains and recessed bulbs in the floor.

"We are fine," Ziva said, scooting closer to where Tony crouched, still keeping his hand elevated. "Are you all right?"

Tony swallowed another tickle in his throat, shoved away thoughts of Kate, considered the pain in his hand, and nearly sighed in ecstasy at the thought of falling into a warm, dry bed and sleeping for a few days.

"I'm fine," he said. "Either of you two hit him?"

"Tony, you're bleeding," McGee said, finally reaching his boss. He reached out a hand to touch the makeshift bandage on Tony's, but DiNozzo smacked it away.

"That is a lot of blood," Ziva agreed, trying to get closer, too.

"Stop worrying about me and start doing your damned jobs," Tony snapped, mostly furious with himself for being so careless as to catch a ricochet, or chunk of stone, or whatever. "We need to get this guy."

"How, DiNozzo?" McGee asked, watching the rain wash Tony's blood from the granite and shuddering at how close his boss had come to getting shot in the head only moments before. Tim shook off thoughts of Kate and said, "He has us pinned here."

"So we just wait for an armed suspect to get into better position to pick us off?" Tony shot back. "I don't think so."

"He's probably long gone," McGee said, sounding as if he really, really hoped that were true.

"Probably," Ziva said, though it wasn't clear whether she was agreeing, or wishing, or mocking. "Or he is waiting for us to break cover."

She stopped suddenly, holding up a hand and then grinning. "Hear that?"

She was up and vaulting the stone wall before either Tony or McGee could get a hand on her. DiNozzo pushed himself up, only to sway on his feet and be caught by a stern-faced McGee.

"You're hurt," McGee said, trying to pull Tony down again. "You stay here."

"Can it, Clara," Tony said, swallowing a gasp as he used his injured hand to hop over the wall. He ran across the wet grass, blinking rain out of his eyes as he chased the shadows of his agent and his suspect, his probie hot on his heels. Tony lost Ziva in the trees near where he had parked, and his heart leapt up into his throat as he heard a very female grunt and then a gunshot.

He and McGee stepped into the trees, both agents going stock-still as they found Ziva flat on her back, motionless, the suspect nowhere in sight.

Oh please no not again I can't do this again.

Tony slammed the brakes on his panicked thoughts and dropped to his knees beside his agent—a woman whose life he was responsible for, whom he had failed to protect.

Again.

He reached out with his left hand, his right still grasping his gun, and he stopped breathing entirely as a drop of blood from his injured hand dropped squarely onto Ziva's forehead, re-creating Kate's gory death right in front of him. He even had lungs full of fluid to help make the memory that much more real.

The driving rain, crashing through the canopy of trees as though unhindered, washed the droplet away just as Ziva opened her eyes and drew a deep breath. She winced and then cursed in what Tony guessed was Hebrew. He wasn't entirely sure because he was too busy searching her body for a gunshot wound.

"Relax, Tony," she said, finding a small smile. "I just had the breeze knocked out of me."

Tony stayed frozen in place, his own breath trapped in his lungs as he heard Ziva's voice but couldn't stop seeing Kate's dead eyes staring up at him. He blinked a few times and wiped a hand across his face, smearing his own warm blood across his cheek.

"Uh, do you mean 'breath' or 'wind'?" McGee asked, still scanning for their suspect.

Tony shook himself, tried to even out his breathing, and forced his mind back into the present. It wasn't easy.

"Whichever," Ziva said, sitting up and giving Tony an odd look as he cupped her elbow in his wounded hand. "The beast landed on me when I tackled him. But I got him. He fell right over there." She pointed and tried to get up, but Tony's grip was firm despite his injury.

They watched McGee walk slowly through the trees. He stopped at the body, half-hidden behind a tree trunk, and he bent down, apparently checking a pulse. "Yeah, Ziva. I'd say you got him. He's dead."

"But he is not our killer," she said, standing and noting that Tony's hand stayed on her arm despite her attempts to shrug him off.

"Why not, Ziva?" Tony asked, unaware that he was holding onto Ziva like a lifeline, his exhausted brain still seeing Kate's corpse overlaying the Israeli's pretty features. But he could feel Ziva's pulse at her elbow and he desperately needed the reminder that his partner was still alive. That this partner was still alive.

"Because a man who just bought a hundred grand in fake bills would not smell like a trash bin," she said, looking over at McGee. "He is a hobo, yes?"

McGee nodded. "Looks it." He pulled out his phone and then frowned as he compared the mug shot with the dead man's face. "Or not. This is our guy," he said, looking at his teammates in confusion.

"It cannot be," Ziva said, jerking out of Tony's grasp with an annoyed look that turned instantly contrite when she realized she had hurt him. "Tony, I—"

"Where does a hobo get money to buy counterfeit bills?" Tony asked, ignoring the attempted apology—and the stinging pain in his hand.

"Maybe he's not really a hobo," McGee said, looking down at the body. "The mud on his clothes looks smeared—as if he'd been rolling in it."

"You think he was hiding?" Ziva asked, her eyes on Tony's bleeding hand. She winced as a drop of blood dripped from his fingertip and she wished, not for the first time in her life, that her temper was not so short. "Why not simply take the money and run?"

Tony held up his bloody hand and shook his head. "We'll answer the questions later," he said firmly. "Right now we have a scene to process."

McGee looked from the dripping hand to Tony's face, noting that while his boss had been pale before, his face was now absolutely bloodless. "Okay, Tony. Hey, you still have Palmer with you?"

Tony glanced toward his car and nodded. But he said, "We should wait for Ducky. You know how he gets when we start without him." He watched McGee flick a nervous look in the same direction, and he nodded. "But yeah, Probie, go get him. Make sure he's okay."

Ziva and McGee exchanged a look saying it wasn't Jimmy that they were worried about, but Tony didn't see it. He was too busy staring at the spot where Ziva had fallen, still seeing Kate's dead body.

McGee started walking out of the trees, and Ziva moved closer to Tony, again seeing the haunted look in his eyes but still not understanding it.

"Tony."

She watched him jump a little and then turn toward her, blinking as if surprised to see her.

"Are you sure you're okay, Ziva?" he asked, looking straight at her face even as his hands ran down her arms again.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," she said, eyes narrowing in concern as she carefully caught his wrists and pulled him—gently—to a nearby bench.

The rain had finally slowed to a soft drizzle, but the bench was still soaked as they sat on it. Ziva didn't care. She was already wet and Tony looked like he might fall over if the wind picked up again. She released his right hand and focused her attention on the bleeding left one, easing the makeshift bandage off to inspect the wound but immediately pressing it back down again when she realized how severe the bleeding was. She trapped his hand between her palms and pressed hard, feeling him flinch at the painful pressure.

She was about to apologize for hurting him when the cough he had been suppressing forced its way out, the ferocity of the fit evidence of its fury at having been ignored so long. Tony wrapped both arms around himself as he hacked and gagged, but Ziva captured the injured hand and held it up, worried more about the amount of blood soaking the bandage than her partner's fierce coughing. It was a close call.

But Tony recovered quickly, looking up just as McGee returned with Palmer at his side. "Got a present for you," Tony said, nodding at the body.

"Aw, you shouldn't have," Palmer said, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the trembling agent.

"I didn't," Tony replied, trying to pull his hand from Ziva's but finding her grip too firm to fight. He gave her a look. "Ziva did it."

She gave him a look right back, checked her watch, and then turned to Jimmy. "Wound occurred approximately seventeen minutes ago and is still bleeding heavily. Three-inch slice across the back of the left hand, likely either a ricochet or piece of granite shrapnel from the monument. He needs stitches."

Tony raised an eyebrow at her at about the same time Palmer did, but Tony spoke first. "Thank you, Dr. David."

She frowned at him, but her expression wasn't angry. "In Mossad, we are trained to take care of our own." She nodded at Jimmy. "Until more suitable help arrives."

Palmer grinned at that, moving closer and reaching to take Tony by the arm. "Come on. I'll drive you to the hospital."

Tony stayed planted on the bench, his eyes moving from his hand—still firmly caught between Ziva's small ones—to Jimmy's face. "You're just gonna take her word for it?" he grumbled.

"I don't want to remove the bandage unnecessarily," Palmer explained. "It'll pull out the clots."

"Gross," Tony said, standing and refusing to admit that he felt light-headed. "I don't need stitches."

"Yes you do."

Palmer and Ziva spoke at the same time. Tony rolled his eyes.

"Fine," Tony said, not wanting to waste any more time when they had more important things to worry about. "McGee—"

"We know how to watch a dead body until Ducky gets here," the probie said.

"Maybe," Tony conceded, disentangling from Ziva and replacing her hand with his over the wound. "But Ducky won't get here if no one calls him."

McGee gave him a sheepish look. "Good point, Boss," he said.

Tony grinned as he turned away, feeling Palmer hovering at his side. "I do love it when he calls me that."

"Hey, Tony," McGee called after them. His grin was slightly smug. "Clara Barton was a Civil War nurse. Not a World War II one."

Tony just gave him a wave, using all of his fingers when just one would have done.

The pair got back in the car, Palmer sliding behind the wheel and Tony not fighting him. But as soon as Jimmy turned the key, Tony said, "To the Navy Yard, James." He tried not to giggle at his joke, feeling more than a little light-headed now.

"You're going to a hospital," Palmer said firmly. He glanced at the sodden red handkerchief. "You really do need stitches."

"Something you happen to have a lot of experience with," Tony returned. "I've seen those Y-incisions when you're finished with 'em. You got mad skills. You're a regular Betsy Friggin' Ross."

Jimmy eyed the agent. "Betsy Ross made flags."

Tony sighed. "Sewing, Palmer. She sewed flags. Try to focus." He looked back at the road ahead. "And try not to get lost. You're going the wrong way. Navy Yard's that way." He jerked his thumb backward over his shoulder.

"And the hospital—containing the ER where you are going to get stitches—is this way," Jimmy said, pointing straight forward.

"Are you saying you can't handle a tiny little scratch, Future Dr. Palmer?" Tony challenged, annoyed with himself for leaving the scene without putting up more of a fight. He was team leader; he should have stayed.

Jimmy was quiet for a moment long enough to make Tony feel guilty about both his words and his earlier actions. But then Palmer just said, quietly, "Yes, I can stop the bleeding. Yes, I can stitch up the wound. I can even do it in a way that will minimize the scarring." He stopped, glancing over at his pale, silent passenger. "But I'm not a doctor yet, Tony, and I can't prescribe you anything for the pain."

Tony turned his face to the window, for once in his life at a complete loss for words. They rode in silence the rest of the way to the nearest hospital, and Tony didn't fight when Jimmy pulled up to the emergency entrance and told him to stay put.

Tony didn't fight when Jimmy opened the door and helped him to his feet, silently gripping the agent's arm as he fought through the dizziness.

Tony didn't fight when Jimmy kept a hand on him as they made their way slowly to the doors.

But Tony did stop, just outside those doors, and he turned to Jimmy with a crooked smile. "Thanks, Palmer," he said. "Sorry I'm such a pain in the ass."

Jimmy just shrugged. "I'm sure I'll have to deal with plenty of ornery patients when I'm a doctor," he replied. "We'll just consider this practice."