Usual disclaimers.

McGee sat at his desk, running as much information as the little group had gathered during their last 'information gathering' session. His eyes kept flicking nervously towards the phone handset, as though he were expecting a call he didn't particularly want to take.

"Something wrong, McGee?" a voice said, startling him. The special agent looked up to see his colleague staring at him from across the room, a rather curious look on her face.

"Nothing," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you're looking at that phone as if it might beat you."

"Eat me, you mean?"

"Yes. That's what I said."

McGee shook his head dismissively. "No, the phone's not going to eat me, Ziva…" Just then, however, it rang, startling him and making him jump a little. "NCIS, Special Agent McGee…" he answered, hoping it was a call from his publisher or his sister or even the new mechanics for his car that he'd found to replace the fast-talking con artists he'd recently dispatched.

"Agent McGee, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner, from the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI."

"Ah, yes," McGee gulped. "Good afternoon."

"Agent McGee, I'm being led to understand that you have one of my profilers assisting you on a case…"

"Yes," the round man blurted out. "Yes, we do—a Dr. Reid…"

"That's him. I'm sorry, but I need you to send him back as soon as possible. Seeing as this wasn't an 'official' request for our—and his—help, I'm going to have to have him in Utah as soon as possible."

"Current case, sir?" McGee asked, trying hard to hide the fact that something was wrong.

"Yeah. Listen, tell him to turn his phone back on and head out immediately, hmm?"

"I'll get right on that," the naval agent replied. "I do want to thank you for the help, though, unofficial or not."

"Certainly. Have Reid give you our liason's number, and perhaps we can be of better assistance in the future."

"Will do. Again, thank you."

The phone disconnected, and McGee heaved a gigantic sigh.

"Who is 'Dr. Reid?'" Ziva asked, having crept behind the younger man while on the phone. "Did Ducky hire a new assistant?"

"What? No," McGee responded, flustered. "Nope, Jimmy's still down there with him."

"Then who is…"

"Ziva, I'm not at liberty to discuss it," McGee said firmly, hoping it would be an end to the matter. The agent silently thanked God that the Director had sent Gibbs and Tony on an overnight conference that morning to Norfolk—it meant that he and Abby had just less than thirty-six hours to find these missing people of Kyle Parker's before they were found out—if, in fact, they were missing at all…

"Hmmph," the Mossad agent snorted. "Believe me, McGee, I will get to the bottom of this…"

Just hopefully not before we find these guys, he thought as Ziva sauntered back to her desk. Suddenly an email popped up on McGee's monitor:

McGee—

This guy Pena, I tracked his records. There's something familiar about the guy, but I can't put my finger on it. Can you meet me? I'll tell you all about it then—I'm not sure about the security of these lines…

Kyle Parker

McGee cleared his screen, set the screensaver, and hurried towards the interrogation rooms. Unbeknownst to him, a certain lithe figure followed, taking care to note which room McGee entered. The woman crept into Observation 2, noticing a sandy-haired man sitting hunched over a laptop. He didn't look up until McGee tapped on the table.

"You said there was something I should see?" her colleague asked. Ziva noticed that he spoke slowly and clearly, and that he made sure to face his 'visitor' as he did.

The stranger nodded, and pointed at his screen. He scribbled something on a small notepad, and passed it to McGee, who read with interest.

"You're sure this guy's dead?"

The man nodded.

"Then we're at a dead end." McGee rose from his chair and began scratching the back of his head.

"No," the stranger said in a very garbled voice. Picking up his pen again, he scrawled another note and thrust it at McGee, who took it from his hand.

"You think someone's picked it back up?"

The stranger shrugged, but nodded his head slightly.

"Fine. I can do a search."

Shaking his head wildly, the sandy-haired man cried, "No!" He then inscribed another note and shoved it across the table.

"Okay, we'll let her do it. What do you propose we do, then?"

The strange man picked up his hands and began to move them, much like Abby or Gibbs did when they were speaking in sign language.

So he is deaf, Ziva realized. But what is he doing here? And how does McGee know him?

"I…I can't understand," McGee told his guest, tapping his forehead.

Another note was scrawled out and given to the agent. "You want us to go down to Miami?"

A bold and determined nod was McGee's only answer.

"No," the agent said. "I can't just go off to Miami…" When the stranger began to protest, McGee continued. "We have no jurisdiction! And, moreover, we have no case!"

The stranger stood up, firing off a few signs at McGee. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. McGee quickly followed.

Ziva stepped out of Observation and managed to see the young man stalking around the corner towards the bullpen. "McGee!" she called out. "Over here!" Her colleague followed her as she trailed the angry young man towards the elevator, and both of them managed to slide in just before the doors fell shut. The stranger refused to look at McGee, instead focusing on the rather attractive Ziva. His stare became wider, however, when the woman pulled the emergency stop button on the elevator car, causing the container to stop instantly.

"Now," Ziva said, staring at the two men who looked at her bewilderingly, "you're going to tell me what's going on, or I promise you'll wish you were dealing with Gibbs himself." The lithe Mossad officer stood firmly with her back to the control panel, allowing her 'prisoners' no access.

Knowing Ziva, McGee sighed. "Tell her," he said, looking at the stranger between them. "It's your theory…"

----

A chill worked its way up Oliver's spine. His hair dripped like a leaking shower head, and he desperately wanted to remove the hateful cloth from his mouth. Oliver had screamed and cursed so much during his 'bath' that the guard finally gagged him, tying the cloth so tightly that Oliver could taste blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He was then frog-marched stark-naked up the stairs, in full view of everyone, and dumped in one of the cubicles he'd seen earlier. As soon as the Plexiglas door was slammed shut and the thick clear bar wedged into place, the guard lingered in front of the transparent barrier, taking a look at his 'merchandise.'

"I think we might get some fun out of you," he said, though because of the thick plastic Oliver had to strain his ears to hear him. "Oh, yes…"

The thought of being forced to submit to these sick individuals' whims was enough to make Oliver's stomach turn. He stood defiantly, though a part of him wanted to crawl in a hole and die. If I let them think they've cowed me, it's over, he determined. But as much as I hate to admit it, it's working…

Oliver thought about everything that had happened since they'd been kidnapped from the office. He recalled Reid cringing in shame after the 'walk' they'd been allowed, and Oliver had a feeling he knew why. He himself had wanted to struggle against the men holding him and run as fast as possible, but he'd been kept in place by a stern warning that if he fought, Reid would suffer greatly for it. Not wanting to admit defeat, Oliver had made it as difficult as possible to allow the guard access to the fasteners on his jeans, and the second those rough hands had found what they were looking for, Oliver had shuddered and cringed as though he had been ravished by these vile, disgusting men.

The inspection had come next, and that experience had sunk Oliver's hopes even lower. Though it appeared he would not be 'sold' as a matter of chance, he desperately did not want to see what might happen to his friend should the auction come to pass without incident. The thought of Reid being forced to 'pleasure' some sick man who would beat and abuse him made Oliver want to throw up. He knew that, for himself, he might have to endure years of humiliation and beatings as the 'boss' chose to take out his frustrations on a possibly perpetually bound and helpless Oliver.

Then the 'bath.' Oliver had cursed at the guard when he had intimated that Oliver might never receive another, as the thought of being forced to wallow in dirt and other waste had made his stomach violently revolt. His response was a fierce slap to the head, and Oliver worried that he might be suffering a concussion because of it.

This is just business for them, the investigator reasoned. There is absolutely no value to a human life other than a monetary one for these people, and those unfortunates who are snared by their deception and lies are only going to receive humiliation and misery in return.

Oliver's mind flashed back to a small attic room in Baltimore, where he had managed to find one more victim of a giant trafficking operation—a little girl who had believed she would sing in the Maryland nightclubs that littered the city. She had been lying on a dirt-and flea-infested mattress, and her swollen midsection was barely covered by the tattered shift she'd been allowed to wear.

"How old are you?" he'd asked, with Josh's help. The little girl spoke only Russian, but knew a couple of English words from the books she'd read in her village.

"Fourteen," she'd replied. Both Oliver and his mentor knew that she had been lying, but they let it slide.

"Do you have a name?"

The little girl had fallen silent a moment. "Sasha," she'd said, very softly.

Oliver thought now of Sasha, of what life must have been like for her in that despicable place. He thought too of what was likely to befall him, and wondered if he was strong enough to endure the horrors as she had. The cold damp air began to seep through the sturdy walls of his prison, and began to weave over his naked frame like strong cords that made up a fishing net. Oliver's teeth chattered, biting down on the cloth that had been wedged between his teeth as a silencer.

The faint creak of door hinges trickled through Oliver's ears, and the investigator tried to see where the noise was coming from. Who's there? he wondered feverishly, straining his neck for a better look. The vantage point that the tiny cubicle offered was not sufficient enough to see who had come in, nor where the person had gone. Oliver quickly sat back down, unwilling to leave himself exposed to prying eyes for very long. He thought of Reid, whose shyness and intense introversion would make this experience even more degrading that it would for someone like Oliver, who was a little bit more of a performer.

Pain worked its way up Oliver's stomach, the organs vehemently protesting the lack of sustenance inside it. The sour taste of the cloth mingled with the coppery taste of the blood dripping from the corner of his lips, and the combination was enough to make Oliver desperate for water. What I wouldn't do now for even a sip, he thought, beginning to rationalize even the most denigrating actions on his part as being acceptable as payment for access to even a drop of the cold, clear liquid he so agonizingly craved.

Why don't they just kill me? he wondered after several minutes of excruciating silence. Oliver attempted to make himself as comfortable as he could on the cold concrete floor, but the prickly grains of sand and pulverized rock embedded inside continued to nip into his divested flesh, making the act of sitting for any length of time an unbearable one. Because then the payoff would be too quick and not as satisfying, he realized. It's more 'fun' to see me suffer for whatever transgressions they think 'my boss' has brought onto them than to 'make an example' of me. Oliver wished he knew exactly what this was all about. He had a feeling that this was one of Chase's earlier cases coming back to bite them—that had a habit of happening a lot—but he still couldn't shake the idea that it could be something related to Josh or his former superiors from the FBI.

The former agent racked his brains fervently, trying to figure out what 'trespass' had led him to this horrible fate. He was so focused on his thoughts that he never heard the door creak open, nor the footsteps of the man entering until it was too late.

"Well, well," the dark-haired man remarked icily, staring down at Oliver's hunched frame. "Trying to figure out what's going on, esclavo? I would have thought you'd figured it out by now…"

Oliver glared at the man, his eyes furrowing into narrow slits. He longed to lash out at the presumptuous man, now laughing at him with eyes that twinkled merrily at the investigator's misfortune.

"Si, that lady boss of yours, she'll soon learn not to go nosing into other people's business," the man continued. "After a while I might send a picture or some other 'intimate' token her way—just as a reminder of how much you and your friend are suffering because of her."

That'll kill her! Oliver thought savagely. He knew how hard his employer took attacks against the people she cared about, and he could identify with that. He'd felt the same way after Sarah's murder, and he knew she still struggled with Ben Rothschild's slaying very intensely, even after nearly eight years. Oliver struggled to get to his feet, furious that he'd let this man get the better of him.

"Stay down, pequeña puta," the man snapped, kicking Oliver squarely in the ribs. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, and Oliver coughed and sputtered through the tight gag still bound through his teeth. "You'll move when I tell you to move, comprende?"

The only sounds that emanated from the tiny cubicle were the deep, ragged breaths coming from Oliver's nostrils—ones filled with loathing for the man in front of him and with pain from the blow he'd suffered.

"Oh, yes," the man chortled evilly, staring at a certain part of Oliver's anatomy that he usually kept covered from view. "And how you'll 'move' for me…"

The thought made Oliver sick to his stomach.