Chapter Eleven: Missing

"Dinozzo!"

Tony turned at the sound of his name being called by a man several doorways down. A man who did not look very happy. Resisting the urge to grin, Tony made his way over to the man. Honestly, baiting the good Dr. Peterson was the only real entertainment he'd had in the past month.

"Yeeeees," the Italian drawled as he leaned his shoulder casually against the door.

Dr. Peterson looked decidedly red in the face as he held up the torn scrap of binder paper Tony had left on his desk that morning.

"You want blood samples from the entire crew!" Peterson hissed. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Nope," Tony shrugged, "I have reason to believe that one of the crew members may be an imposter. I need to match everyone up with the database."

Peterson glanced at him for only a second before making up his mind.

"No you don't," he growled, "You're just doing this because I actually have work to do and you're bored."

"Aw, Rick," Tony said, smiling and clapping the other man on the shoulder, "Would I ever do something like that to you?"

This time, Peterson didn't even hesitate.

"Yes," he said with finality.

Instead of answering, Tony just shot him another charming smile before turning toward the hallway he'd been walking down before Peterson had called him back.

He kept the smile firmly on his face as he greeted crew members he passed in the halls, though very few of them returned the words with any degree of friendliness. Tony had succeeded in making more enemies than friends in the month he'd been on board the Reagan simply because of his pointless snooping and endless questions.

Reaching what had been deemed his office but was really just a small, cramped room he suspected had once been a broom closet, he finally let the self-assured grin drop from his face. Within seconds, worry lines appeared and a look of exhaustion shadowed his features.

Practically running to his computer, he rapidly typed in his email login and password. Scanning through his new mail quickly, he wasn't disappointed. He'd received two new emails—one from Abby and the other from Ziva—and also had the joyous prospect of replying to the email McGee had sent the night before that he'd read but hadn't gotten the chance to respond to.

Settling himself into his chair, he clicked open McGee's email slowly, reading the words again before typing up a few sentences and hitting 'send'.

Then he turned to Abby's and couldn't stop the smile that widened across his face as he read of her latest antics.

"That is so Abby," he chuckled as he learned of her latest escapade involving Palmer, Troy from Accounting, and quite a bit of Caf-Pow.

Finally, having saved the best for last, he opened up Ziva's email and began to read.

Shalom Tony,

I am sorry, but this will be my last email for a while. Father is sending me undercover. I have to admit, I am a bit surprised that it has taken him so long, but I suppose he wanted to be sure America has not 'softened' me, as he says.

I hope you are well and not too bored. I have to admit that, even here at Mossad, things are a bit dull without your joking.

I just received another email from Abby as well. Apparently, she has taken it upon herself to send me something every day.

Which reminds me of something I have been meaning to ask you. Have you heard anything from Gibbs? McGee is getting worried and says even he has not seen him much. Abby does not say much about him so I am guessing she is mad at him. Can you try and contact him?

I miss you Tony.

Ziva

Just as he was about to type his reply, he noticed the small icon that announced the email had come with an attachment. Curious, he clicked on it. As the image filled his screen he grinned and leaned back in his chair.

It was Ziva, sitting on a low brick wall with the setting sun forming a halo around her. Her hair, curly and slightly frizzy, was blowing freely in the breeze. She wore a tight-fitting dark brown tank top and olive-green cargo cutoffs and Tony whistled appreciatively at the way the clothes fit her body.

'She got a lot tanner,' he mused. Then, grinning wickedly, he hit print.

He waited impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to another, as the century-old printer that had come with his "office" eeked out a copy of the photo. The moment it dropped onto the tray, he snatched it up and, grabbing a thumbtack from the pile on his desk, pinned it to the wall above his desk.

Sitting back down in his chair, he sent her an update of the happenings aboard the Reagan with her smiling brown eyes watching over him.

oOo

"McGee!"

Timothy McGee grabbed NCIS's resident forensic scientist around the waist before she could demonstrate to him her best impression of a flying tackle…only to have her hug him breathless the moment she'd latched onto him.

"Abbs…ca-an't breathe," he managed to choke out.

"Oh Timmy," cried Abby, finally releasing her hold on him, "I missed you!"

"Abby," McGee said patiently, "You saw me this morning."

"I know, but…"

"But it's not the same," McGee finished for her, "I know Abbs. C'mon, let's go get lunch."

After waiting in a mile-long line at the Togo's down the street, McGee and Abby finally got their sandwiches and plopped down on a nearby park bench to eat them.

"Oo n'w wa, Mc-geef?" Abby mumbled through a mouthful of salami and mustard on rye.

"Abby."

"Mmm."

"Chew, please."

Abby swallowed thickly then grinned sheepishly at him. "Oh yeah. Well, anyway, you know what McGee?"

"What Abbs?" McGee replied, taking a bite of his own sandwich.

"I think I finally talked some sense into Gibbs," she informed him proudly.

McGee raised an eyebrow at her.

"What did you do Abbs?"

"Nothing," Abby insisted, "Actually, it wasn't even planned. I was just so, so mad you see, and then he walked in and when I saw him I got even madder and I just had to say something and…and…"

"Whoa Abbs," McGee warned, patting her back, "Breathe."

Abby took a few gulps of air then continued as if she'd never stopped.

"And then he got this weird look on his face and then some other stuff happened, but basically, at the end he finally promised me he would do something and he gave me a hug, so now I just know they'll be back soon Timmy!"

She finished with a beaming smile in his direction then took another huge mouthful of sandwich.

"But Abby," McGee said slowly, his forehead crinkling with thought, "How is he going to do that? I mean, we don't even really know why Vance broke up the team in the first place."

"Gibbs will figure something out." Abby's voice was confident and McGee could tell she had absolute faith in his former boss.

"Abbs," McGee said softly, "Gibbs isn't God, you know."

"I know that McGee," she said toying with her sandwich wrapper.

Her sea green eyes met his and, for a moment as he simply sat and stared into them, McGee was sure they held all the knowledge in the world. The moment ended as she broke eye contact and looked out over the park. Her next words were so quiet McGee wasn't even sure if she'd really said them.

"But he's the closest thing we've got."

oOo

"Goin' for coffee!"

Gibbs' declaration echoed through the bullpen as he headed for the elevator.

Eleven minutes later he was standing outside of the Starbucks around the corner from NCIS, sipping his usual strong black coffee and punching a long-memorized number into his cell phone.

It rang six times before voicemail kicked in.

'If yer callin' for Mike Franks, you got 'im. Obviously I'm not here righ' now, though. Wait a second fer the beep. If I hafta tell you what to do when you hear it, ya ain't worth talkin' to, so just hang on up now.'

Gibbs smiled reflexively as he heard his old boss' voicemail message, but immediately sobered. If he had to pick the most important thing he'd ever learned from the man, it would have to be 'always be reachable'. It was the one rule Franks had been truly adamant about and the only one he hadn't broken himself. He always had his phone on him and he always, always picked up. Unless he was being held hostage or something, but Gibbs was sure that hadn't happened. Then again, there was no better explanation…

Where the hell was Mike?