Chapter 9: Showtime
The first thing Ziva noticed was the pain.
There was a dull, thudding pain in the back of her head, an achy, pulling pain on her restrained wrists, and a blossoming pain all over her body, most likely bruises slowly forming.
Ziva stayed focused on the pain for several seconds, utterly confused as to why it was there. She tried thinking back, thinking back to the last thing she had done, but nothing came. Panic set in for a moment, a paralyzing terror of what had happened, of the unknown.
Ziva's body automatically jumped in surprise at a strange, deep sound to her left, bringing along a fresh wave of intense aching through her petite body. She felt her muscles tense and her eyes squeeze tighter closed. It was then she realized her eyes were closed and she automatically sprung them open.
Her brown orbs frantically scanned her surroundings, and an unwelcomed feeling of dread settled in her heart. For several, erratic heartbeats, she was sure she was back there. That she was back in that disgusting place full of pain, hatred, and the cause of her nightmares. The place that caused her new, ever-present fears and moments of panic she kept so well hidden from her team.
Through the fear, it took her mind a great deal longer to realize that this was definitely not Somalia. For one thing, this room was much bigger. Her cells in Somalia, they changed locations and cells quite frequently, were usually no bigger than seven feet long and seven feet wide. This room, however, was probably about fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. Also, this room was more or less well lighted. Instead of the small amount of light coming through the tiny windows of her cells in Somalia, this room had three somewhat modern lights attached to the ceiling. This lighting allowed her to see another difference between this place, a place she still hadn't recognized, and Somalia.
Here, the door was made of a tough, shiny, and most likely bulletproof material, most likely some strange combination of metals. The doorknob was also made of metal, and had a keyhole directly beneath it. In Somalia, all the doors were made of thick wood, with wooden bars sliding across the outside as a lock.
Once Ziva was mildly pleased with her assessment of her surroundings, or at least, what she could see directly in front of her, she began an evaluation of her physical predicament. With a tug of her hands, she concluded her hands were indeed bound. The unique feeling of the material informed her that it was some extremely tough rope. Whoever had restrained her was an expert, each wrist secured to the backing of a wooden chair with their own string of rope. Looking down she discovered each ankle was restrained in a similar fashion, one ankle attached to one leg of the chair, the other ankle secured to the other.
Ziva pulled several times on her restraints, only receiving a squeaking sound from the old chair in return. Ziva slumped her shoulders and closed her eyes, allowing her emotional dam to break down, and the fear and hopelessness wash over her.
She had been rescued the previous summer from a similar imprisonment, and she knew the odds of another safe escape were slim. If only she could remember how she got here!
Her sadness and despair were soon replaced with anger and she harshly pulled against the ropes securing her to the chair. With each ferocious tug a high-pitched Squeak! would fill the air.
Adrenaline started to pump vigorously through her veins and she pulled harder and harder.
The room was filled with a harmony of squeaks, and Ziva abruptly stopped her wrestle with the ropes as a deep noise rumbled again to her left. She had completely forgotten about the sound before!
Ziva snapped her head to the left, knowing that if it were an attacker, she had absolutely no way of defending herself.
However, there was no attacker, not even a slight threat. Before Ziva's eyes, not ten feet away, Kensi sat hunched in an old wooden chair, her wrists and ankles bound in the same fashion as Ziva's.
Kensi let out another moan, and the memories hit Ziva like a brick wall. Memories of their trip to Los Angeles and of the men attacking her, Kensi, and Tony in Dom's apartment flooded her mind. It was obvious the men had taken her and Kensi, but what about Tony?
Ziva's heart seemed to stop. Questions raced through her mind like a movie on fast-forward. Appropriate, given the circumstances.
Did they have Tony, too?
Why weren't they keeping him with them?
And the worse and most horrifying question of all: Was it because he was already dead?
Ziva shook her head to rid herself of such thoughts, slightly regretting it as her stomach churned from the pain the movement caused.
Ziva reached deep inside herself, to the Mossad training she knew would always be with her. She rebuilt her emotional dam in record time, forcing herself to forget Tony for the moment, no matter how impossible it seemed to be. Right now, it was just Kensi and herself.
It was obvious that Kensi was slowly coming around, but Ziva feared not fast enough.
"Kensi!" she whispered, wishing she could reach out a hand to shake the other woman awake.
With no response, she whispered again, "Kensi!"
This go-round, Kensi awarded her with another moan, and her eyelids started to flutter.
With just a little more volume, Ziva whispered one last time, "Kensi!", and the woman's eyes shot open.
Her head shot up as well, and her eyes atomically made contact with Ziva's.
She just stared at Ziva for a moment as she got her bearings. "What happened?" she eventually whispered.
Ziva sighed. "I am not sure. I believe we were kidnapped in Dom's apartment. Most likely Tony was taken as well, but I have not seen him."
Kensi nodded slightly, wary of the throbbing in her head from her little encounter with the wall of Dom's living room.
"How long have we been here?" Kensi asked.
Ziva thought over this question carefully before answering. "I…am not sure. I have been awake for about ten minutes, but before that we could have been out for an hour or ten. It is hard to tell with no windows in here."
Kensi took in what Ziva said before looking around their surroundings. Ziva was right; there were no windows whatsoever. There were only the walls, the floor, the door, and the three lights above them.
Kensi absentmindedly noticed a couple of electrical sockets scattered throughout the room before locking eyes with Ziva once more.
"Do you think the others know we're missing and are looking for us?"
Ziva wasn't sure how to respond. She knew that wasn't all she wanted to know. What she really was asking was, will we be found, or will we die? And for that question, Ziva had no answer.
Ziva stared at Kensi a moment. She was very young. By no means was Ziva old, she wasn't even thirty, but Kensi was still younger. In age, yes, but also in spirit. Even though Kensi was an NCIS agent and has seen many a horror, she couldn't even imagine what Ziva had seen and been through.
It was right then that Ziva decided that, if it came down to it, she would die for Kensi, or any member of the team for that matter.
Ziva had said it last summer, and she meant it. She was prepared to die. Being rescued hardly changed that. She deserved to die. She didn't deserve a second chance with the offenses she had committed, offenses as severe as were done to her. Her acts, however, had been covered up as heroic deeds for her country and people by her father at the time she had committed them. Even if she didn't fully realize what she was doing because of her blinding wish to please her father, she still believed she deserved to suffer in hell for what she had done, if you believed in that sort of thing.
She deserved to die, and would gladly do so to save someone she cared about.
Kensi continued to stare at Ziva, waiting for an answer.
Ziva managed a weak smile before assuring Kensi. "Of course they are looking for us."
Before either of them could say another word, heavy footsteps could be heard walking towards the door to their cell. Kensi and Ziva listened as someone rattled a ring of keys just outside the door, searching for the right one. Moments later, both women heard a click and the knob on the door slowly turned.
When the door swung open, a burly man dressed in black strolled in, a black ski mask covering his features. He got right into Ziva's face, forcing her to inhale the foul stench of his breath and sweat.
"We're going to put on a little show, my ladies." He slurred, English obviously not his first language. As he caressed Ziva's face with his slimy hand, Ziva's mind was hard at work. She knew his accent. This man was an Iraqi.
The nameless Iraqi man released Ziva's face as two men rolled in a simple metal table, and a third and fourth came in carrying a laptop with a webcam and a metal toolbox.
The Iraqi man watched as the four other men silently set up the equipment. When everything seemed to be in order, the laptop open on the table with the screen facing Ziva and Kensi, a wire running behind the table and into one of the sockets spotted by Kensi, and the toolbox stashed underneath the table, the third and fourth men left. The other two stood in front of the door as if guarding it.
Ziva watched as the Iraqi man opened up Skype and signed in, the font too tiny for her to see. As his account loaded and he sent a video request to a pre-added friend, he turned around and smiled creepily at Kensi and Ziva.
"Smile pretty girls. It's showtime."