Chapter Ten
Dangling by a Thread
Though Tim McGee works at his desk upon a dozen endeavors, the one at the top of his list is the one closest to his heart. His thoughts are fragmented, unfocused; they keep coming back to that one investigation that fires, that consumes him. Normally focus is not a problem for him. Now, while anger drives him to find the killer of his friends, outrage has him searching for a blackmailer. Guilt again and again returns him to his bed with Ziva and the jealous anger he'd left behind, barely addressed and still unresolved. However, thoughts of Siobhan and happier times in the past and happier daydreams about the future intrude – a future he cannot allow to exist.
When the conflict is about to make him snap, the telephone intercom rings. "NCIS, Special Agent McGee," he answers automatically.
/McGee,/ Abby's pleased voice comes back, instantly lifting his spirits. He realizes belatedly he hadn't noticed the difference between outside line and intercom. /I have the hit - get down here ay-sap./
"Going to Warp now."
/Gee, McGee, I always knew you were a little perverted./ She hangs up before he has a chance to answer.
xx
"Edward Samson. He has a record running back over twenty years," Abby tells him as they look at a picture displayed on the screen, a classic 'mug shot' with a numbered placard and a series of measured lines behind him showing the height of the black haired suspect at an even six feet. "He started out shoplifting in Scranton, moved on to boosting cars in Philly, was one of New York's 'Top Ten Muggers' in Central Park in the days when that place was world infamous. Then got into, it seems, just about anything that had money attached to it. Internet fraud, identity theft - he was in and out so often they installed his own revolving door."
The man has bushy hair and equally unkempt mustache and could stand to lose thirty pounds, probably the result of easy living off his stolen money. To Tim he just looks soft and worthless.
"But I can't go after him," he grouses, frustrated. "Gibbs said to turn everything over for NCIS to act upon, but he'll never agree now." All the teams are already overloaded dealing with an attack upon the NCIS itself; he knows what his boss' answer would be if he asked now to divert forces to pick up a blackmailer.
"You could turn this over to the police."
"You know I can't do that!" If anything went wrong, Shav's past mistake would become common knowledge and she would be destroyed.
"I have more faith in people, it'll work out."
"I can't take that chance, not with Shav!"
She can hear his feelings all too well. "McGee, you're not alone, I care too. I owe her - a lot - but sometimes you have to take a step back and realize you can't do everything." Her voice rises with her passion. "Gibbs is pushing the rules beyond the breaking point already. You should still be on the D.L.! Despite his pushing you into work, you're still disabled. Gibbs should never have had Director Shepherd cancel it. You shouldn't even be here."
He's surprised by her fire, but he can't blame her. "I know," he admits morosely, "but I can't leave her alone. She's one of us as much as any other agent. The Agency has to help."
"We are helping, I did help!" she waves at the mug shot still upon the screen. "But we're strapped to the limit. And don't go to Shepherd, she's on a countdown with the Commandant and she'll rip you a new one just for asking." She hugs him, careful of his wounds, trying to find a solution to the guilt. "I'm sorry, McGee, we're under fire and I can't lift you out of this, we're all dangling by a thread."
She feels the set of his body change, the muscles under her hands move, his whole posture changes but he says nothing. When she draws back, he has a strange look on his face. "What's wrong?"
"Say that again."
"Say what again?"
"About how we're under fire."
"I said 'we're under fire and I can't lift you out of this, we're all dangling by a thread'."
The strange look on his face gets even odder. Suddenly he grabs her by her arms, yanks her close and kisses her full on the lips, leaving her so startled she can't move. Breaking the kiss before she's ready or has even caught up enough to enjoy it, he holds her at arms' length. "Abby, you're brilliant!"
"If I can be brilliant again, will you kiss me again?"
His kiss is as intense as the first one had been and, since she's ready for it and is able to throw her own arms about him and respond to his fire, even more enjoyed. Ever since she'd 'confessed' her feelings for him, she has been longing for this moment.
"TIM!" A furious shout explodes from the rear doorway; they turn to where Ziva stands staring, outraged. Without hesitating, McGee releases Abby, hurries to Ziva, grabs her and kisses her as passionately, astonishing the woman. He turns her around and holds the kiss for nearly half a minute. When he finally lets her go, she staggers backward into the lab, breathless.
"Have to go! Sorry! See you later!"
He is out the door she had been blocking, leaving the stunned women behind him. Ziva shakes herself loose from her befuddlement.
"I am going to kill him," she mutters, then turns to Abby, "or I am going to kill you." She turns back to the vacant door. "Either way, I am going to kill somebody!"
xx
"No, McGee."
These are the first words Ziva hears as she reaches the Squad Room, but they're not the worst.
Tim stares at his boss, stunned. "You said once I had a name and location I should come to you and you would send a team–"
"I haven't got a team to send!" Gibbs reminds him forcefully, restraining himself from waking the man's brain up. "That was before we got hit with all this mess. I gave you an assignment, where is –?"
"It's in your email, but Boss–"
"Wake up, McGee! I know you're concerned about your friend but she is not a priority. She has until the end of the week to come up with the money and you know how we handle that. Make the drop, bust him when he–"
"And her past comes out if we prosecute and she must testify. That's what I'm trying to avoid–!"
"Well, I'm not sure how you can avoid i–"
"By busting him before he can do any mo–!"
"Wake up, we have a thing called 'law' here an–!"
"If he's doing this to her, he's likely doing it to others and if we ca–!"
"Put it on hold, McGee!" Gibbs' loud command wins the contest. "Your priority is finding out who's killing our Agents! Now get back to your desk and get on it!"
x
Throughout the entire floor, every agent is carefully attentive to this confrontation, so surprising since none of them had ever seen a break between this Supervisor and this man. There was the case of the impostor, but this is the real Tim McGee who could be throwing his future away.
Closer to the scene, Ziva wants to break in, to head off disaster. But there is nothing she, Tony or Michele can do but hold their places and watch as a friend self-destructs.
They breathe a sigh of relief when Tim stalks back to his desk, but then he snatches his jacket and yanks it on as he heads for the elevator.
"McGee! What do you think you're doing?" Gibbs demands, outraged by this defiance.
"There are nearly three hundred agents in the District, most of them devoting their efforts to catching these bastards. Shav has only one agent she can count on to help her, who knows where his priorities are. I've been her friend for a lot more years than I've been an Agent." He yanks the gold shield from his belt, displaying it. "Tomorrow morning I'm either going to have to put on this badge or look myself in the face when I shave. If you were me, you'd do the math and make the same decision." He strides to the elevator, stabbing the call button.
"McGee," Gibbs is not sure if he is more angry or incredulous, "get back to–!"
"Not this time! I can't." The door opens before him.
Gibbs comes out of the bullpen, his anger erupting. "McGee, you get on that elevator and you're fired!"
Such is the belief in his boss' word that he actually does hesitate, but then he boards the car and the doors close after him, leaving silence in his wake.
Gibbs stares at the door. His words are softened, as though he can barely believe he's saying them.
"You're fired."
xx
Tim opens his cell phone as the elevator descends, wondering just when he had crossed from sanity into madness. He has just walked off his job, his life and his future - and he finds he truly doesn't give a damn! Nothing matters to him anymore, not when the person who has trusted him with her future–.
The phone rings only three times before a man's voice answers. He identifies himself, concluding with "I need help."
"Hey, every time I look at Kimberly I'm reminded that if it weren't for you she'd be dead. You pulled her out of that fire and I count every day since as a blessing. Whatever you want, it's yours."
xxx
Edward Samson lies upon his couch, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling and contemplating his fortune. The sudden death of his partner and mentor Trevor Hanson, who had pipe dreams of guiding him out of a life of crime, had been sad. The windfall that had resulted from the disposition of his properties had been a treasure. Mingled with the thousands upon thousands of negatives from a lifetime of work at nude photography had been countless selections of images declared unusable. That is, if one followed the law.
Of course, following the law or doing what's right has never meant anything to Ed Samson. To him there are two kinds of people in the world, those that do the 'right' thing and those who are rich. His goal, now and always, is to be rich. Now and always 'might makes right', and his is the right to make money.
One reason why Trevor Hanson never made the kind of money Samson is making today is that he never had the courage to take advantage of his opportunities. He never threw anything out - ever - there was always the opportunity to sell past work to other magazines, but there were some that were unusable and yet were kept because of that same packrat mentality. Hanson had locked away a load of pictures spanning decades, photos of lovely nubile bitches that were too young to see print but who, through the magic of the Internet, could be found.
Now Samson has these too, and those who have made something of themselves down through the years could be coerced to make something for him.
Now he has 17 women under his power, women who don't want their sordid pasts revealed to the world. Some are Corporate bigwigs, some are professionals, some had married into money and don't want to risk losing it on the indiscretions of the past. There are a lot more that had been found and will in due time be convinced to share their fortunes. For now, his stable of beauties is a comfortable start.
Seventeen, at a modest two thousand a month, means he can just lay back and collect, at this point, thirty four thousand dollars a month - cash. Who knows where things will go when he gets the other fifty six under his control? Hansen had been in business for a long time, the number of stupid girls is impressive. All he has to do is keep them as frightened women. A hundred forty six thousand a month - cash - each and every month with no more labor involved than just making sure a flock of stupid bitches stays scared enough to keep in line and away from the police. He'd hardly have to increase the dole - though with several of the better heeled bitches he will!
A sharp knock at his door surprises him. Going to his door, he stands beside it, calling out cautiously, "Who's there?"
"Federal Express."
Surprised, he opens the door, even more surprised to find a brown haired man standing beyond it, one not wearing a brown uniform. "What is this?"
"Siobhan O'Mallory sends her regards." Samson feels his face give him away. The man raises his hand and fires. Two hundred thousand volts sear his body as the TASER releases its full charge, blasts every neuron in his body, makes him fall hard to the floor, writhing in pain. A moment later the world goes black.
x
"Well, Abby," Tim McGee mutters, "it still works."
Several months ago Abby's friend Dawn Caldwell had been victimized by the 'Fed Ex gambit'; and he's just endured two days of torture with an electric cattle prod.
This feels a little like payback.
xxx
When the blackness of oblivion begins to clear, it gives way to near deafening noise and vibration heavy enough to shake teeth from his jaws. Ed Samson opens his eyes and finds himself lying flat upon a steel slab in a metal chamber which vibrates with the sound of heavy machinery. It doesn't take him long to realize he's in a helicopter, but a very special kind, one far larger than he is used to. He recognizes this is an enclosed military helicopter, built to carry twenty or thirty people. When he looks about, he finds there are only three people in the chamber with him, two men and a woman. He recognizes one of the men, the one sitting opposite him next to the woman, as the one who attacked him. They're all wearing Army fatigues. He has never met the woman but he recognizes her instantly – from her Church and from her pictures.
"Oh, God." His voice rasps, dry with fear.
"You got that right, pal," the man who had assaulted him says, his voice erupting from a crypt.
Samson looks around, frantic. "Where am I?"
"Good question," his captor grants, looking at the other man above the level of Samson's head, "where are we?"
Samson sits up as the man opens the door behind him slightly, the noise increasing as he calls loudly, "What's our position?"
"Eleven miles out, altitude 500 feet," comes the loud answer.
"That's eleven miles out over the Atlantic," his captor proclaims. "Lose a body out here, just terrible. Hope you can swim." There is no sympathy, or hope, in the man's tone. There's only a deep and searing anger. This is not a merciful man.
"What do you want?"
"I like a man who gets down to business," he looks at his compatriot at the forward door, "don't you?" The other only nods. His captor leans forward.
"You recognize this woman, you know what we want. Every picture, every negative, every image on every computer and media you have. You're going to tell us exactly where to find them."
Without waiting for an answer, any answer, he crosses the chamber to Samson's left, to a huge steel door, unbolts and slides it aside. It rumbles as it opens. Immediately the noise increases ten-fold and a rush of wind cuts through the chamber. The door leads into the night.
"One of two ways, dirtbag; give them up or I make sure you never publish them. You have three seconds."
"Listen, maybe we can cut a deal, I don't have to release her pict–"
The man bends over him, grasps his shirt and yanks him to his feet. They're an inch apart and the roaring wind whips about them. "Wrong answer, pal."
With maniacal strength the man whips Samson off balance to his right, reverses and flings him through the door. The woman's shriek mingles with his own as he falls into the night.
x
Samson screams as he falls in the blackness toward the Atlantic far below, his shriek cut short as he's wrenched to a painful stop by a biting grip to his left ankle. He's barely aware he's stopped falling before being buffeted by cyclonic winds, lost in the blackness. He looks with disbelief at the chain attached to his ankle, keeping him dangling and swinging in the wind. The chain leads up forty feet to the open door of the roaring helicopter. It's a huge, double propeller Army transport, barely visible against the stars. Only the aid of blinking running lights and the light from the open door allow him to see the huge machine. He can't see the Atlantic five hundred feet below him. Wind from the powerful propellers and from the turbulent ocean buffet him on all sides.
"Pull me up!" he screams frantically,
"The pictures," his captor's amplified voice booms from the roaring helicopter, the wash of the machine and the whipping winds almost drowning everything else out.
"Please!" he yells, praying he can be heard over the din. "You don't have to do this! I'll cut you in for half! You can be Rich!"
"The pictures! The negatives! All of them!" the booming voice shakes the night. "Right now - or I cut you loose."
"NO! Please!"
"Where are they?"
"My apartment - closet in my bedroom! Please!" The chaotic winds tear at him, worse from the sides than from the hovering behemoth slicing through the night.
"All of them?" the man's voice thunders over the rotors.
"All of them! I swear! Every single one! You can have them all! Just let me go free!"
"Okay, I'll cut you loose."
"NO!" Samson shrieks. "DON'T!"
"Okay," his captor's normal voice says from right beside him, "you do it." Samson feels something hard and heavy slapped onto his chest. "Here."
x
All about him lights come on singly, in pairs and groups and he clutches frantically at a long set of bolt cutters. Next to him stand the man who had captured him, the woman priest who was going to help him get rich and their unknown accomplice. All about him lights continue to come on in a tremendous chamber.
He looks 'up' at the helicopter supported by long black steel beams reaching out from the studio walls, the props just clearing the one wall and a high black ladder reaching to the other side of the 'copter. All about him, huge fans aimed at him are being turned off by the pilot, the chamber growing quieter by the moment. Looking toward the 'Atlantic' below, he hangs three feet off the sound stage floor.
His captor, still 'upside down', pulls a leather case from his pocket and opens it up, displaying a gold shield. "Federal Agent. Edward Samson, you're–" but the woman priest reaches out, touches his arm.
"Timmy, may I?"
"Be my guest," he tells her with gallant courtesy.
From her pants pocket she pulls out a similar case and Samson's heart turns over as she displays a gold badge and smiles with infinite satisfaction. "You're under arrest."