Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the bad guys and the typos.

Warnings : Rated T for violence and language.

Author's Note : Thanks to everyone who's read, favorited and followed so far. Extra thanks to everyone who left reviews.

I was supposed to finish editing my manuscript today, but this chapter wouldn't leave me alone. We've got about three (maybe four?) chapters left.

Hopefully, you're still enjoying this. If so, let me know!

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12:46am - The Pentagon, Washington, DC – Office of Rear Admiral John (No Middle Initial) McGee – Concurrent with Tony DiNozzo's Road Trip –

"Are you sure about this?" Kenji asks quietly.

Gibbs' eyes snap from the exhausted agent's face back to the computer screen. His bank account information flashes, waiting for the transfer order. Cracking his neck, Gibbs stares at the amount he amassed over the years. While it isn't a sizable, it's enough to afford him a comfortable life.

Or just enough to bring his former agent home when his own father fell short.

"Sir?" Kenji's finger hovers over the mouse. "Do you want to do this? I'm not convinced I'll be able to retrieve it."

Sighing, Gibbs closes his eyes for a moment.

Whatever it takes to save my agents.

With a dismissive wave, Gibbs steps away from the admiral's desk. Even though he's ready to pay a portion of the ransom, he can't stand there and watch his life savings vanish.

Kenji's face perks up, panicked. "What does that mean?"

Gibbs looks back. "Transfer the money."

"Are you – "

"Just do it, Suzuki!"

He gives a half-nod, then dips behind the computer screen. The click is so quiet Gibbs barely hears it, but it makes him flinch. Crossing his arms, he feels an almost fleeting connection to John. Sacrificing everything he worked for in life to bring someone he cares about home. He never thought he'd be in this position after Shannon and Kelly died, but his surrogate family is a family all the same.

Gibbs shifts his weight, lets his gaze roam over the office. As he takes in John's possessions, he tries to figure out how a man so rigid could raise someone like Tim. But then, he hadn't expected the man who strolled off the elevator at NCIS to be DiNozzo's dad. Two completely different beginnings yielded him one of the best agents he ever trained and another one well on his way.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Gibbs pauses at a childhood picture of Tim with his sister. Gap-toothed and gangly, the siblings are a mash of limbs as they grin for the camera. Gibbs presses his finger against the glass, rubbing the dust away from the girl's face. He smiles at the image, remembering how many hours he spent staring at similar pictures of his daughter.

I wonder who Kelly would have become, if she had the chance.

But he doesn't have the opportunity to go through the possibilities like he does on sleepless nights.

The door to the office groans and John steps inside. His dress whites are gone, replaced by a blue button down and jeans. In one hand, he holds a container with three coffees. Several clothes are draped over his other arm. Anxiety settles over his face as he heads to the desk.

"Any news?" he asks, setting the coffees down.

Shaking his head, Kenji reaches for a drink. "Not yet, but we managed to get the rest of the money together, sir." He glances at Gibbs, flinches and puts the cup down. "Other sir."

John's brow furrows. "I don't understand. I thought you were going to…"

When he waves for an explanation, Kenji sighs like no one ever listens to him. Under the tense stares of the older men, he spins the computer around and taps his finger on the screen.

"I could spoof the cash," he explains, "but Agent Gibbs thought it would be too big of a risk. It wouldn't be long before the bank on the other end realizes it's fake. So we'd have a minute, maybe two, to transfer the fake money and rescue Agent McGee. Since it's real now, I can trace it if they get away."

Gibbs emits an actual growl. "They're not going to."

"If – " Kenji holds his hands up " - I only said, if."

With a distracted nod, John glances at the computer screen. The new amount in his account makes eyes grow wide. His mouth gapes for a long moment before he manages to compose himself.

"Where did the rest of come from?"

Kenji starts, "Actually, it was – "

"The NCIS discretionary fund," Gibbs interrupts.

Kenji blinks, clearly confused, but plays along when Gibbs glares him down.

"Yeah, discretionary fund," he parrots. "You know, for terrorists and weapons deals and…and…"

"Ransoms." John nods slowly. "Give NCIS my gratitude, Gibbs. I'll pay them back."

Gibbs doesn't reply. Instead, he grabs one of the coffees and takes a swig. As soon as the bitter liquid washes over his tongue, he gags violently.

"Good to know the Pentagon don't have better coffee than NCIS," he says.

John smiles sympathetically. "Government contracts. It's the same everywhere."

Gibbs steels himself for another swig. "Same shit everywhere."

"Actually," Kenji interjects, drinking his own, "I think it's pretty good. Really smooth finish and…"

When Gibbs snatches the coffee from his hand, Kenji gets the hint. He turns the computer back around, ready to start again. While he pecks half-heartedly at the keyboard, Gibbs gestures to the clothes hung over John's arm.

"What'd you bring those for?"

"I figured you two might like to change."

Kenji glances over to the men. "That would be great. I could use – " Gibbs skewers the agent with a glare, making him drops his eyes back to his work. "You know what, I'm great with what I'm wearing. Really comfortable, thanks though, other sir."

Sighing, John lays the clothes onto his visitor's chair. He wrings his hands, staring at Gibbs out of the corner of his eye. Fear glides over his features - full blown, but fleeting.

"Gibbs?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

John checks on Kenji, then lowers his voice. "What if this doesn't work?"

"It's going to," he replies resolutely.

"But – "

"We'll get McGee back safe. And if not - " Gibbs shoots him a sideways glance " - your man should be able to finish the job."

When John clenches his jaw, the conversation is clearly over. Only Kenji's frenetic typing breaks the tense silence. The minutes tick by, creeping later into the night and closer to the deadline. Eventually, impatience gets the better of Gibbs and he swivels back to Kenji. If they don't make a move soon, they won't get to Philadelphia in time.

Delays might just get Tim killed…

"You got something yet, Suzuki?"

"Uh – " Kenji clears his throat, his cheeks going pale " – not yet. Steve and Eloise are gathering intel on the Naval Yard before they head out. It's been abandoned for years so they're trying to get blue prints for it. They'll be leaving shortly to scout the location. I'm trying to trace the account where Admiral McGee sent the first payment. But it isn't progressing like I thought."

Gibbs makes a face. "Then scratch it and we'll head out."

"Now?" Kenji checks his watch. "We still have six hours to locate Agent McGee."

"It's a two hour drive to Philly." When Kenji stares at him blankly, he adds: "We need to set-up and rendez-vous with Barrows and Davenport."

"For what?"

His actual growl makes Kenji flinch visibly. But when the agent doesn't say anything, Gibbs crosses the room to give him a head slap. With his eyes growing wide, Kenji rubs the back of his head in disbelief. He glances to John for support, but the man just looks away.

"Don't you remember the plan, Suzuki?"

"Of course sir, we meet with the kidnappers and exchange the money via my laptop."

Gibbs pinches the bridge of his nose. "Right, but we need to know what we're walking into."

Kenji purses his lips, nods. "Ah, okay. That makes sense."

Hopping to his feet, the agent begins to gather his equipment. He starts to scoop up the laptop, but something on the screen grabs his attention. He stops dead and sinks back into his chair. With his eyes fixed on the screen, he blatantly ignores Gibbs' annoyed stare.

John swallows hard. "What is it, Agent Suzuki?"

"Another e-mail from the abductors," Kenji whispers, almost to the laptop. "Reminder of the meet with a proof of life." He gives a quick tap on the keyboard. "I can start a trace right – "

"Sent it to Abby," Gibbs orders. "We're leaving."

"But I can do this."

When Gibbs levels his glare at the young agent, Kenji's voice dies in his throat. He pushes to his feet, straightens his back as he struggles to keep his resolve. When Gibbs takes a step towards him, he closes his eyes, obviously searching for courage.

"With all due respect, sir," he says, a quiver in his voice, "I can trace the source of the e-mail just as well as Abby. I just need some time."

"You don't have it, Suzuki. If you keep screwing around, McGee is going to die."

Kenji clenches his jaw and glances to the floor as John storms out of the room. Without any more protests, Kenji drops into his chair to forward the e-mail to Abby. But as Gibbs approaches, Kenji peers over the laptop like he's about to be mauled.

"I'm sending it to Abby, sir, I swear."

Gibbs ignores him. "Whaddya got?"

"Just an image similar to the video we received earlier."

With a couple of clicks, Kenji loads the attachment. There's no video this time, just a single picture. Gibbs holds his breath as he takes in the image of an unconscious Tim on the same bedspread as before. The only difference is the television screen in the background shows a famous late night host.

"It looks like Agent McGee was still alive as of midnight," Kenji reports. "Other than that, there's nothing new. Kidnappers confirm the meet time and say they'll give us directions to the spot when we get there." He sighs, makes a few clicks. "Maybe Abby will have better luck than me."

"You can work on it in the car."

"How?"

Gibbs hands Kenji a cell. "Use this."

The agent's brow furrows like he isn't sure what to do with the newest piece of equipment. Eventually, he nods carefully and slides the phone into his pocket.

"Thanks, sir. I'll see what I can do."

Gibbs bobs his head. "You get anything on the bank trace?"

"I come up empty on the kidnappers' account like Abby did, sir. But remember the fifty thousand dollars Admiral McGee paid out first?" Without giving Gibbs a chance to react, Kenji smiles triumphantly. "That money was easy to follow. It ended up going to an account in the Caymans."

"Any idea who it belongs to?"

Kenji gives a one-shouldered shrug. "I don't know. I'm assuming it's the same person Admiral McGee hired to recover his son. I was able to reconstruct deleted correspondence on Admiral McGee's computer and the other person only refers to himself as, 'M'. But whoever he is, he's pretty scary."

Gibbs' eyebrows jump. "How so?"

"The last e-mail from 'M' says, 'Do not fear. Your son will return, regardless of the costs.'"

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

2:14am – Philadelphia Naval Yard – Philadelphia, Pa. –

The steady flashlight beam cuts through the pitch-dark night, casting an eerie glow over grimy asphalt. On the overpass high overhead, Ziva hears the din of traffic in a city not yet asleep. But it is a world away from the abandoned Navy Yard. Here, her only companions are the calm breeze rolling off the ocean and the assault rifle tight in her grasp.

Malachi slipped away as soon as they arrived, claiming they could cover more ground alone. As she slinks along her chosen path, she has come to agree with him. There is too much ground to cover together. In fact, it will be a feat for them individually.

I hope we find what we are searching for soon.

She guides her flashlight left, then right. Every inch is the same: rusted tankers, decaying equipment and storage trailers. Lots and lots of storage trailers.

She pulls a deep breath, catching the day's heat still lingering in the air. The sweat pricks to her brow and she wipes it away, then pushes deeper into the Navy Yard. Just as she clears another section, a patch of color catches her eye.

Bright green.

Different than the rust and weathered blues, it is completely out of place here.

Holding it in her flashlight beam as though it might disappear, she creeps closer. When she reaches it, she crouches to run her fingers over the ground. It is rough and bumpy under her touch.

They have marked their preferred location with duct tape.

Her eyes jump to the sky. This place seems no different than any other in the industrial wasteland.

Why would Tim's abductors chose this spot for the exchange?

On her second survey, she notices it. Lone and desolate, the blackened figure nearly blends into the cloudless sky. It is the only thing every previous location lacked: an old crane with a bird's eye view.

That is the first spot I have seen suitable for a sniper.

Pressing her lips together, she pulls out her cell phone. Malachi answers on the first ring.

"I have found something," she whispers.

"Then I am on my way."

When the line goes dead, Ziva examines the location further. Two lines of storage containers are on either side, creating a tight walkway. The spot is easily accessible from both directions, but there are also openings between the containers large enough for a man to squeeze through.

This is not the type of place she would choose for an exchange.

She drums her fingers on her rifle, trying to figure out why the abductors chose this place. Other than the sniper's perch, why would they choose this place?

It is in the dead center of the Naval Yard with –

she makes a face –

numerous opportunities for escape. If their mission does not go as planned, the abductors could take any number of possible routes. Even with Malachi's help, they cannot block every exit.

She swears in Hebrew, slams her fist against a container.

Not even NCIS would be able to stop them in this place.

Moments later, the heavy thud of boots approaches. She deftly swings her rifle up, but lowers it at the sight of Malachi. Smirking slightly, he steps into the center of the passage. His flashlight rakes through the night, catching bits of dust and naval flotsam as it goes.

"This is not good," he surmises.

"I am aware. What shall we do?"

"We do what they do," he replies as though it explains everything.

Her brow furrows as she glances at him. "I do not understand."

"They plan to use a sniper, yes?"

When he points to the crane, she nods. Her eyes follow his finger towards a slightly shorter observation deck on the opposite side of the passageway. While its placement is not perfect, it is a decent spot for a sniper. But the cage is open, leaving them exposed to return fire.

"If they will use one," he says, his lips curving into a wicked smile, "we shall too. We will, as the Americans say, 'beat them until they are tame.' "

Ziva frowns. "I believe the saying includes blame."

Malachi waves his hand contemptuously. "Perhaps you are correct, Ziva. Perhaps not, but it does not matter now. We have work to do to recover McGee."

"And the kidnappers?"

He looks over, taken aback. "I thought you understood. They do not deserve to walk away from this." When she doesn't reply, he waves her forward. "Come, we have little time to ready ourselves."

But she doesn't follow right away.

Instead, she watches the night swallow Malachi's black-clad body. She lingers for a moment, straining her ears to catch the noises of the city. These are the sounds - the life - she will leave behind when this job is complete. After all those years she worked in the shadows, she thought she was finished.

But that is not the case.

She draws her assault rifle to her chest, follows after Malachi.

It is for the best. I am not meant for that life anyway.

-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-

5:18am – Somewhere Outside Philadelphia, Pa. –

Something jostles Tim's shoulder and he shifts away. Just as he manages to get comfortable again, the touch grows more incessant. He struggles to crack his eyelids. When he finds Hobgoblin inches from his face, Tim recoils violently

"Whoa, easy," Hobgoblin says, grabbing Tim's shoulder. "Just calm down."

As he takes a deep breath, the pound in Tim's head starts again. Groaning, he slumps back against the bed. When he lands on his bound hands, his muscles scream, but he doesn't have the energy to move.

He just lies there, squinting through the darkness at Hobgoblin.

"It's time to go, Agent McGee."

"Go?" Tim croaks. "Go where?"

A pained smile glides over Hobgoblin's lips. "Home. This is almost over."

When Hobgoblin pulls Tim to his feet, he doesn't fight. Even if he wanted to, he just doesn't have the strength. He leans against Hobgoblin, his legs barely able to hold his weight. His head lolls forward, but he manages to jerk it up for a view of the room.

It's surprisingly empty. All of the computer equipment is missing – probably already packed up – and the furniture looks cleaner than before. As soon as they step away, Maui strips the bed clothes into a trash bag.

They're getting rid of any evidence. That's smart. Really smart.

When Tim's knees give out, another strong set of hands catches his arm before he hits the ground.

"For Christ's sake, he can't walk," Dozer growls.

Tim decides now isn't the time to defend himself. Instead, he lets them drag him out of the hotel room. Despite the early hour, the air is still sweltering. He tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs won't cooperate in the heat. Sweat cascades down his back and he tries to glance around the parking lot. But there's nothing to see as they hustle him into the back of the waiting van.

As soon as his body lands on the cold metal, Tim sighs with relief. He struggles to stay alert as his captors hop in and slam the doors.

He tells – begs – himself to pay attention to the route so he'll be able to retrace their steps later.

Awake. I need to stay awake.

He jerks his eyelids open, breathes hard. Overhead, Dozer and Hobgoblin share a muted conversation he can't make out, but it almost sounds like they're arguing. The van bounces onto the road, hangs a right. Tim forces himself to count the time between turns, just like Tony and Gibbs taught him. With every passing moment, his eyes grow heavier.

…twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. Red light.

He blinks owlishly, desperate to wake up again.

Don't fall asleep, Tim. Don't fall asleep. Please don't –