Disclaimer: See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.


Georgetown Suites, Georgetown, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2243 Romeo

The main plaza of the Georgetown Suites was chaotic. Actually, the whole area in and around the hotel was a mess. Mobs of people milled about, wondering what the hell was going, where was the fire, and when could they go back inside. Fire trucks were parked in the plaza, but once it was apparent there was no fire, they instead aided the police in attempting to keep order.

On the fourteenth floor, at room 1426, FBI agents were coming and going as they secured the scene and transferred evidence in and out. Talking on his phone down the hall, by the elevators, was Agent Fornell. The white powder covering him gave him the almost comical look of a prank victim, and the shoe print on his face would garner even more chuckles. The look on said face, however, would've killed those chuckles faster than SIDS.

"We screwed the pooch, Jethro," Fornell told his friend. "I don't know how he did it, but Hauser knew Margott was in town. He killed him and five of my agents on his way in and out."

"You couldn't catch him?"

"We had one group a' guys watchin' the ground floor and another headin' up to pincer 'im. The pincer group…ran into some trouble. The ground floor group never even saw him, 'cause he jumped out a window from the second floor."

"He hurt himself?"

"Scratched himself on the glass, but that's all we know. If we're lucky he's hobblin' around on a broken leg. He'd have to either seek treatment or do it himself."

"Pretty sure he'd just do it himself, Tobias."

"I'll bet. Listen, Jethro…this guy's good. You and your people out there are gonna need help. I'll send some more agents with vests and assault weapons. I didn't think we'd really need 'em to take down one guy, but-"

"Don't do that, Tobias."

"…Why the hell not? In case you didn't hear me earlier, he killed five agents to get to this guy, and he-"

"Tobias, there's already eleven people out here. We already have vests, but we don't have much room, and we're already using up all our hiding spots. Since he knows we were guarding Margott, he'll be expecting guards at Hanson's. If he can't see them, maybe he'll put too much focus on finding them to watch all his corners."

"That's a helluva gamble Jethro," Fornell said, his gaze frozen forward. "You're risking Hanson's life, the lives of eight of my men, and your whole team's life on a maybe."

"Eisenhower did it on D-Day."

"You think that makes you Eisenhower?"

"No. Makes me think it can be done. I've got damn good people, Tobias. We're getting this son of a bitch, and we're getting McGee back."

Fornell was silent for a moment. "I hope so, Jethro…I really hope so."


State Road 699, Annandale, Virginia/September 15, 2010, 2349 Romeo

They were so close. So fucking close Hauser could hear the brain spatter. Mere miles from their last stop…and the fucking radiator died. That was how the BMW came to be stopped on the side of the road with its hood up and its emergency lights flashing. First they'd been unable to take US-50, the fastest way to Annandale, and now the car was fucking broken.

If Hauser could be grateful for one thing, at least, it was that the car broke down here on a relatively empty state road. For over an hour now, Hauser and McGee had driven through varying degrees of urban streets and suburban neighborhoods. Here, though, Hauser could make a swap, if his luck was right, and have no witnesses.

Of course, part of that luck was whether or not a car actually came along and-

Ah. Here's one now.

Hauser moved to a spot right beside the BMW's rear left tire, and raised his arms in the air, waving them slowly. This was the third car he'd seen in the past ten minutes, and hopefully, third time would be the charm.

As the stars would have it, it was.

A smoke grey 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix, occupied only by the driver, pulled onto the shoulder and stopped right behind the BMW. The driver side door opened, and a man in a pair of workout clothes stepped out.

"You need some help, man?" the stranger asked.

"Yeah," Hauser replied, a gracious smile upon his face. "Started makin' this funny noise and jerkin'. I pulled over, but I don't know jack shit about cars and can't figure out what's wrong."

"Well lemme see if what I can do," the man said before closing his door and approaching. Hauser turned and lead the way. As he came to the front of the car, he picked his USP, suppressor attached, off the engine block and held it low and out of sight. The movement was smooth, practiced, and executed before the other man had even seen under the hood of the BMW.

"Oh, wow," the man said as Hauser made his way to the man's right side, putting himself between the road and his would-be helper. "No offense, man, but you really don't know jack shit about cars. The radiator's busted, you're gonna have to-"

He never even turned his head before Hauser aimed and pulled the trigger, emptying the Good Samaritan's brain contents onto the road shoulder and one side of the BMW's under-hood. His body instantly dropped like a sack, landing on the engine block with a solid thunk before gravity pulled it to the ground.

Hauser was already unscrewing his suppressor as he watched the ends of the road, looking for oncoming headlights. He still didn't see any by the time he stowed his weapon and dragged the body around the side of the car, putting the vehicle between it and the road. Hauser opened the passenger door and pulled Agent McGee up from where he'd been doubled over in the passenger seat. After cutting the zip tie around his ankles, Hauser helped the agent out and carried him to the Grand Prix, where he opened the passenger door and settled the agent into the seat before closing it back up and returning to the BMW.

From his new seat in the (much more comfortable) Grand Prix, McGee watched as Hauser lifted the body and set it in his old spot. McGee let out another choked breath. So much needless bloodshed… His eyes fell in shame, somehow feeling he was partially to blame.

And that was how he saw the phone.

It was just sitting there, in between the dashboard console and the gearshift, attached to a car charger. McGee couldn't believe it, and he actually closed his eyes for a few moments before opening them. It was still there. He had a way to-

The driver's door opened. McGee looked to Hauser, who stood there as he dug through his bag, the medical kit hanging off his shoulder. After pulling out some supplies and setting them on the seat, he leaned in and tossed the bag into the back seat. McGee stared forward, at the BMW, praying Hauser wouldn't see the phone, wouldn't know notice McGee wired like a circuit…

The doors clacked, unlocking when they were already unlocked, and then the thunk of the trunk opening. Hauser stood, held the supplies in his hand, and shut the door. McGee remained frozen as he heard the SEAL's muffled steps take him to the back. There was a thud as he dropped the medkit in, then closed the trunk. He then walked past McGee's window toward the BMW.

McGee picked up the phone and struggled to remove the charging chord from it, a tough task given his hands were still bound by a zip tie. Once he had it, though, he looked to see how much time he had: Hauser was fiddling with the gas tank cap, doing something with the supplies he held. McGee opened the phone and started texting as fast as he could.


NCIS Headquarters, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2352 Romeo

In the quiet, darkened forensics lab, Abby lay sleeping on her futon, Bert the Hippo held close to her chest. She'd sworn to not leave the Navy Yard until McGee had been saved (and he most certainly would be saved), so she'd left her computers running, set the alerts to police-siren-loud, and curled up for some shut-eye, recognizing that unless something happened, there wasn't anything else she could do.

It was all up to Gibbs, and that meant everything was already right as rain. Definitely…yeah.

But it wasn't a blaring computer alert that woke her. It was her cell phone, nudged between her cheek and her futon pillow, vibrating. She pulled herself into consciousness and read the text message she'd just received, hoping that it was Gibbs saying they'd found McGee and were bringing him home.

Not quite, but it was still definitely something.

This is mcgee we tradd cars ner anandal gry or blck pontiac trace this phon

At first, Abby only stared at it, reading it again and again to make sure she wasn't mistaken. Then she leapt to her feet, knowing she didn't have much time.


McGee let out a sigh of relief when he saw the battery was full. He could leave it off the charger and not worry about Abby losing the trace because the phone died. He set the phone under his thigh and looked, just in time to see Hauser returning to the Grand Prix, his hands empty and his eyes watching the end of the road. McGee closed his own eyes and leaned his head back, trying to let all of the tension in his body out in one breath.

Then the door opened and Hauser took his seat. The SEAL let out an exhale of his own, adjusted the seat and rearview mirror, then pulled off of the shoulder and drove, leaving the BMW behind.

Seconds later, it exploded in a fireball that shattered the night silence.


COL Warren Hanson's (US Army, ret.) Home, Annandale, Virginia/September 15, 2010, 2357 Romeo

It'd taken some convincing, but Warren Hanson finally had a good game of Hearts going, something he hadn't enjoyed in a long, long time. At first, no one else had wanted to participate; the FBI agents wanted to maintain a solely professional attitude, and each agent saw playing a card game with a guy they were supposed to be protecting as a horribly careless means of slacking on the job. Gibbs, meanwhile, had simply not wanted anyone to be around Hanson, should that be the moment Vince Hauser scouts the home. But as Colonel Hanson pointed out, if Hauser was willing to risk sneaking through a hotel full of any number of armed federal agents, four guys playing cards wouldn't be much of a deterrent.

Finally, Gibbs had allowed Ziva and two FBI agents to join the colonel.

"How come Ziva gets to play and I don't?" Tony had asked.

"'Cause if Hauser shows up in the middle of the game, she'd still be on her toes enough to react immediately," Gibbs had replied.

"I can play cards and stay on my toes," Tony said, almost defensively.

Gibbs had only raised an eyebrow in skepticism, and Tony couldn't quite hold his gaze. Several minutes later, Tony brought Gibbs a thermos of coffee.

"How's the perimeter?" he asked as he poured a capful.

"Car One and Two both report clear," Gibbs replied before taking a sip. "So do Malenko and Hennig out in the back yard."

"It's almost midnight," Tony commented as he screwed the lid back on the thermos. "That's, what, around six hours?"

"Just about."

For a moment, they simply stood there, watching and listening to the card game going on before them. Finally, Tony broke the silence.

"So Hanson shared some stories about his working days, while you were checking out back."

"Did he," Gibbs replied, though it obviously wasn't a question.

"Yeah. He talked about being on that committee, too…"

"Mhm," Gibbs nodded, more get to the point than I see.

"You didn't mention that Hanson was the only one who tried to get Hauser's team backed-up."

Gibbs thought back to the day before, recalling what exactly he did say.

"Got a suspect," Gibbs said as he strode into the bullpen, Fornell in tow, and handed a slip of paper to McGee. The younger agent, his hair still damp from using the building's showers after that horrible mess in the dumpster had its way with him, looked up from his current activity and read the name on the paper.

"Vince Hauser, SOC, retired. He's a SEAL, Boss?"

"That's what 'SO' means, McGee," the team leader replied as he started pulling up forms on his own workstation.

"We got a motive?" Tony asked from his desk.

"Stockwell and Callaway were on a force deployment committee, supposed to get back-up to Hauser's team during and op and ditched 'em instead."

"Did they have a reason?" Ziva asked.

"Nope. Just politics," Gibbs replied. Before long, McGee had his SRB ready on the plasma.

"No…no I didn't."

Tony watched his team leader for any change or sign of guilt or regret. "It wouldn't have changed anything if you'd told us, Boss. McGee knowing Hanson didn't belong on Hauser's hit list wouldn't have meant he'd believe him. We'd still be in this same situation."

Gibbs recognized his senior agent's attempts to alleviate any potential guilt he might feel, but he knew better than Tony, whether the young agent realized it or not.

"No…no it would've changed things, if Hauser believed him."

"How?"

"If Hauser knew he only needed to get four of 'em instead of all five, he wouldn't need to drag McGee around anymore."

Gibbs let it hang there, though Tony recognized the significance immediately. Instead of waiting for a killer, they'd be waiting for a body to turn up.

Gibbs's phone interrupted the realization.

"Yeah, Gibbs…what?"

Tony recognized the look on Gibbs's face: something really big had just happened.

"Can you keep us updated somehow?" A pause as he listened. "Just do it Abbs, now." He hung up before another word was said.

"Hauser and McGee switched cars, and McGee got ahold of a phone somehow. Abby's tracing it, we'll know exactly when they get here. She said she was sending the tracker to your-"

Tony's phone gave an alert beep usually reserved for received text messages, but as he pulled it up on his touch screen, he saw it was actually a GPS map. A blue dot marked Hanson's home, and a moving red one could only be Hauser and McGee.

It was getting awfully close.

As the two agents went about filling the others in on the latest development, they all began to feel the pressure of the time to act approaching, none more so than the three NCIS agents.

Despite the tension, they could at least take solace that it was almost over.


Anne Fitz Hugh Drive, Annandale, Virginia/September 16, 2010, 0005 Romeo

Two minutes. They were only two minutes away from Warren Hanson's home when things finally hit McGee at once. Six men were dead, not to mention anyone else Hauser managed to get when he was at the hotel. He was hell-bent on getting them all, and if anyone stood in his way, they were putting themselves in more danger than they'd likely ever know. For some reason, it made McGee think of signs you'd see at an amusement park, warning the thrill-seekers about particularly dangerous attractions.

RIDE AT YOUR OWN RISK

And McGee knew his team. They'd wanna be there to protect whoever was in danger. For all he knew, they were either at Warren Hanson's, standing guard over the retired soldier…or they could've been at the Georgetown Suites. For all he knew, that could mean someone he cared for like family was going to die really soon…or they were already dead.

No, no don't think that, he thought. Come on, this is Gibbs and Ziva and Tony we're talking about. Tony's more resilient than a cockroach, Ziva can kill men with Scrabble pieces, and God alone knows what the hell Gibbs can do.

To Timothy McGee, his teammates had always been something more than just agents or co-workers. They'd been family, a family of superheroes. He'd just been the lowly geek lucky enough to get a spot in the building. If anyone could handle Vince Hauser, it was those three…

But what if they couldn't?

Don't think that! They can, of course they can!

But McGee couldn't help it. When the chips were down and the hands shown, they were all only human. Omniscient and Kryptonian though he appeared, Gibbs was just a flawed old man with a work ethic and standards likely too high for his own good. Resourceful and capable as he was, Tony was just a cop who knew how to play others like instruments. Ziva was the most likely to stand a chance, born and raised to lie, kill, and do so much more for the safety of her country. But not so much, anymore. Though he'd considered it a good thing, and now was reconsidering it, her time in the States and NCIS had softened and humanized her.

But not this man.

McGee lolled his head to the side and stared at Hauser, who was only focused on driving, getting to his final destination.

In a truly DiNizzoian revelation, McGee was suddenly reminded of the Terminator.

It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.

With Kyle Reese's warning in his head, McGee couldn't help but see how accurate it was. He tried to reason with himself, remind himself that Hauser, like his team, was only human. He wasn't a killer android…just a killer…

One who's got a target, and my friends are in his way…

McGee looked ahead as the car made a right turn onto Starr Jordan Lane, specifically the northern-most end of it. There was a steady left curve ahead, and then a straight shot that would lead to Warren Hanson, and nothing but more dead bodies.

The idea that another (mostly) innocent man could die because of his own incompetence made McGee sick. But he couldn't even comprehend the idea of his team being in the piles of bodies. And so, as they began the left-hand curve, Special Agent Timothy McGee snapped, forsaking his own safety and livelihood for the safety of his team and a man he'd never met before.

He snatched his hand out, grabbed the steering wheel, and gave it a hard jerk to the right.

For all his SEAL badassery, even Vince Hauser could be a victim of the element of surprise. He never even saw McGee's hand, all he felt was the steering wheel suddenly yanking right. He yanked back to the left, and the Grand Prix tried to correct itself, but the car couldn't beat physics.

It skidded off the right side of the road, which was little more than a steep decline onto flat ground. This created a noticeable drop, and the Grand Prix was airborne as it flew through said drop.

For a moment, time stood still for both men in the car. McGee could actually see the trees through the windshield, frozen sideways like some artsy metaphoric snap shot. Then time resumed its normal course, gravity took over, and the car slammed into the dirt of the forest floor.

The trees were thin and well spaced out, leaving plenty of room for the Grand Prix to crash and roll through before it finally settled onto its side, swayed for just a moment, then lolled onto its roof.