Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Thanks for all the favs and alerts on the story. Also, truly appreciate the reviews and PMs. It's wonderful to see your thoughts.
Just realized that I never gave a chapter count for this - we're at 29, plus an epilogue.
So we (and the team) still have a ways to go.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
Thursday, October 19, 2006 – 4:15am - Residence of Tony DiNozzo – Judiciary Square – Washington, DC –
Leaning against the sink in his spacious bathroom, Tony studies his hands on the white marble before he flicks his gaze to the mirror. He barely recognizes the haggard eyes that are nearly as wild as his unkempt hair. He runs his hand along his chin, unaccustomed to the week-old stubble underneath his fingertips. When he sees the vegetable dye tattoos on his neck, he drops his eyes to his sink. After plugging the bowl with a stopper, he turns on the tap and splashes water on his face. He sighs loudly.
Tony glances back to the face in the mirror.
How did I get here again?
The daily briefings at the Hoover Building and the sleepless nights in his apartment are responsible for the bags under his eyes and the slouch to his shoulders. His work before the first undercover mission with the Angel Caido pales in comparison to the hoops he jumped through for the FBI. When he went in as a narcotics detective, his superior officer handed him a file with the cartel's history and jokingly thumped his back for luck. The personal history, rap sheet and IDs were all by-products of his and Danny Walden's hard work before he walked into Angel Caido territory with the cover of a young man in need of a job.
Tony shakes his head at the thought of the parade of cartel experts and Spanish language coaches that he met with the FBI.
I can't believe they didn't know that Carreras prefers to do his business in English…how can the Feebees be in control of an operation that they know so little about?
The group of so-called experts spent nearly a day trying to develop a valid reason to bring him back to the cartel without blowing his cover. When Tony first suggested taking a copy of Masterson's bank account straight to Carreras, the head of the group gave an eye-roll before banishing him to the Spanish coaches. But given several hours and thousands of taxpayer dollars, they only managed to repackage Tony's original idea and pass it off as their own.
I never thought I'd miss Gibbs' methods so soon.
When he meets his own gaze in the mirror again, he shakes his head. He's been so deep in thought that he doesn't notice the sink nearly overflows. After he turns off the tap, he slinks back into his darkened living room, watching a car's headlights race past the blinds. He finds his way to his couch, dropping into his preferred spot, thankful that the cool leather can soothe his burning skin.
As another set of headlights barely illuminates the room, Tony wonders why tonight seems so different than all the others he's spent before an undercover mission. He typically prefers to mix a gin and tonic, host a private screening of his favorite movie and turn in early to stock up on the sleep that never comes on the job.
But he should've known hours ago that this wouldn't be a typical night. After getting out late from today's briefing and an early drop-off tomorrow morning steal the drink and movie while the disquiet of the impending operation destroys any hope he had left for sleep. When he freed himself from his sweat soaked sheets earlier, he paced his apartment, counting the minutes to the mission's start.
Pressing his lips together, he glances to the clock on his DVD player.
I guess there's no rest for the soon-to-be wicked.
Tony watches the time tick away, the headlights his only disruption as he waits. When he can't stand the darkness any longer, he turns on a light on the side table. While the spots clear from his vision, he rises to study pieces of the life that he'll be leaving in only few short hours. He moves slowly, dragging his fingers over the cold shell of his baby-grand piano.
When he reaches his bookshelf, he traces the spines of his movie collection, smiling at the mementos of his life at NCIS. There's the glass paperweight Tim gave him last Christmas, a Goth Pez dispenser from Abby, the empty coffee cup Gibbs brought him when he survived his first year, Ziva's letter opener she used to threaten him with, and that fancy pen Kate never let him borrow.
Will it be the same when I get back?
His bare feet pad over the hardwood floor as he moves into the kitchen. On the back of a barstool, his cover's jacket rests, ready for him to pull on. Shaking his head, he can't help but run his fingers over the soft leather. The quality of the Armani craftsmanship feels both foreign and familiar. Even though it's one of the few gifts he ever received from his father, he can't remember whether it was for Christmas or his birthday. Not like it really matters now.
Tony only recalls how a cold day led him to grab it on his way out the door before his first mission.
By the time he finished with the Angel Caido, the jacket was almost as recognizable as him. After the mission, he didn't dare wear it again so it was banished to the back of his closet. It hasn't seen the light of day since he walked away from the cartel.
Inhaling sharply, he slides into one of the bar stools.
When I leave here, I'll be Masterson again. For as long as I need to be.
Tony's chest tightens.
I can do this…I have to.
For a fleeting moment, he considers calling Gibbs, even though he knows any contact with his team could have detrimental consequences. He just craves that camaraderie they share in those seconds before taking down a suspect - before they head into battle. Right now, he even misses that nervous habit Tim has where he checks his clip until they head out.
When he notices the time on his stove, Tony grimaces, unable to figure out exactly how the whole night passed by already. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he moves to the front door to recheck his duffle bag for the umpteenth time. Rooting through the carefully folded clothes, he smiles when he finds the Glock Gibbs lent him when he officially left NCIS.
Tony lets his fingers linger on the cool grip, surprisingly comforted by its presence.
Just as he zips up the bag, the doorbell rings. Pulling on his socks and boots, Tony glances to the living room window to see the first sunlight peek through the blinds.
I can't believe morning's here already…
While he rushes back to the kitchen to retrieve his jacket, the doorbell rings again. By the time he arrives at the door, he's breathless. Half-expecting to see one of his team-mates, he frowns at the humorless face of his handler. With his dark crew cut and black shapeless suit, Jamie Schaller looks like a stereotypical federal agent.
The theme song to Men in Black pops into Tony's head.
"Thought you were having second thoughts," Schaller drawls, monotone voice matching his bland features.
"Not a chance in hell. Especially if you're right about what Carreras has been up to lately."
Tony heaves his duffle off the floor, pausing by the door as he runs through his mental checklist for his apartment. The rent and utilities are paid in advance for six months and Gibbs has the contingency plan should the mission not go as expected.
"You ready?" Schaller calls, already down the hall.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."
Tony stares back into his home, a reflection of the man he's about to leave behind. After he switches off the light, he finds that he can't move. He wants to stay, watch the way the morning light flows through his blinds, illuminating shadows that he never even knew existed. Every part of him wants to linger just a moment longer to see aspects of his apartment that he's never noticed until now.
Even though he's not ready, he pulls the door shut.
The dull thud resonates through him.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
12:54pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters – Washington, DC –
Glancing down at the falafel and spinach pita on his desk, Tim grimaces. Ever since Tony left for the Hoover Building, Ziva and the TAD have taken it upon themselves to make sure the team only consumes healthy food. Despite Tim's constant pleas for Chinese and pizza, his teammates return with salads, hummus and more kinds of tofu than he thinks should be legal.
Tim turns to his computer so he can start his preliminary report for their current case. While he can't call his experience as acting senior field agent disastrous just yet, he knows that it's dangerously close. Instead of heading the harmonious, well-driven team that Tony manages, Tim inherited a nightmare. Every order evokes an inquiry about his authority from Ziva or a question from their clueless TAD.
I don't remember being that bad as a probie…
Mutiny and confusion have pushed what Tim thought would be a straightforward case into its fourth day. With their leads drying up and the investigation hitting a wall, he lives in a constant state of panic that Gibbs will ask him for conclusions that he hasn't reached yet.
Pressing his lips together, he watches Ziva work quietly on her computer while she picks her salad.
Tim can't figure out how Tony managed to keep them all in line and placate Gibbs at the same time. While he hopes to learn the secret someday, he figures it'll take a few more years of training before his brain operates like Tony's. But he still isn't sure whether that would be a good thing.
When he notices a grey-haired head pass by the wall behind Tony's desk, terror blasts through Tim. Mercifully, it turns out to be an agent other than his boss. He sighs loudly, his eyes dropping to the sandwich. Something green and unidentifiable oozes out of the pita and onto the paper wrapping.
I don't know how much longer I can do this.
But when his stomach growls again, Tim scoops it up, trying to ignore the noxious smell. He hazards a small bite, feeling the grainy mass slip through his teeth. Barely managing to swallow the mouthful, he chucks the rest into the trashcan.
"Did you just throw that away?" Ziva asks, mid-bite into her salad.
"Yeah, guess I'm not feeling the falafel today."
Probationary Agent Kenji Suzuki pops his head around the corner of the bullpen. It takes Tim a few seconds to locate the round face at the end of his picture wall.
"Really? How can you not be in the mood for falafel? I thought you loved it," Kenji says.
"Just haven't been hungry lately."
"Perhaps you should choose dinner then?" Ziva suggests, violently spearing a piece of lettuce.
"What do you guys think about Chinese? I've been craving General Tso's chicken." He already has a menu from his desk when he notices Ziva's pinched features. The shake of Kenji's head makes Tim sigh. "Pizza? How about we get a pizza?"
"You know, Agent McGee, all that grease will kill you. What about some fish? Nice lean protein?" Kenji advises, sliding his desk chair into the bullpen.
Tim glowers at his monitor.
"Perhaps we should decide when dinner gets closer, yes?" Ziva recommends.
Odds are whatever I pick'll be vegan…again.
"Alright, fine, whatever," Tim grumbles. "Anybody got anything on the Dukakis case?"
He lost count of how many times he's asked the same question since they caught the case Monday morning. A dead petty officer in a dirty alley with a knife though his heart seemed like a perfect distraction for their first week without Tony. With a few pieces of seemingly solid evidence, Tim originally thought this case would be his first win as acting senior field agent.
Though as he watched Abby disprove his theories and his team growing even more unmanageable, he gradually stopped caring about the win. Now, he just wants to live long enough to see the weekend.
"According to Abby, the partial print on the knife that went through Dukakis' heart wasn't in the system. Although the one on the dumpster is from the same person, so whoever killed the petty officer probably did something in there," Kenji reports.
"I know, Kenj, I read her report too. So you're thinking wrong place, wrong time?"
He smiles tightly, and then jogs back to his desk for his legal pad. While he flips through the pages, Tim rolls his eyes at Ziva.
"Well, I did until I looked into his financials and it turns out that he withdrew ten thousand dollars in cash the day he died."
"Any idea why?"
"Not yet."
"Whole lot of drugs in that part of DC?"
"There is no evidence of any drugs in his system," Ziva says, displaying the autopsy report on the plasma. "He is cleaner than a harmonica."
"Clean as a whistle," Tim corrects.
"No, Agent McGee, I think she's right about the harmonica," Kenji offers.
Tim inhales raggedly, counting slowly to ten until he feels the agitation ebb away.
"Okay, fine, he's cleaner than a harmonica. But what was Dukakis planning on buying if it wasn't drugs?" He frowns at the stone-faced team looking back. "Come on guys, we should've solved this days ago."
"You're damn right, McGee. Whaddya got?" Gibbs growls, rushing into the bullpen.
At the sight of the team leader, Kenji ducks behind his legal pad, scampering back to his desk.
"Prints on the dumpster and knife match, so Dukakis probably interrupted someone digging through the trash and it got him killed. But he also took out ten grand in cash. Money wasn't with the body, so he probably dropped it off before he was murdered," Tim reports.
"Or somebody took the money and set up the murder to look like a random act. Any defensive wounds on the victim?" Tim shakes his head. Gibbs sips his coffee. "Then he knew the killer."
Tim grimaces, unable to believe his oversight. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he truly hopes the bullpen will be empty when he opens his eyes again. Unfortunately, Ziva and Kenji stare back, clearly awaiting orders. Before he can give any, Gibbs points at them.
"Go talk to Dukakis' co-workers and find out if anybody's ten grand richer." When Tim grabs his gear, Gibbs shakes his head. "Ziva, take Suzuki."
Kenji hides behind his legal pad to sneak past Gibbs, and Tim wonders why he can't channel his boss' authority. Turning back to his report, he shrinks behind his desk as Gibbs approaches. By the time he smells the coffee that lingers on his boss' breath, Tim can feel the sweat pricking to his brow.
There's a solid rap to the back of his head. Cheeks blazing, Tim glances up to Gibbs' concerned face.
"Come on, McGee. Get your head in the game."
"Boss, but Tony –"
"Isn't here. You are. I need you, Tim, got it?"
"On it, boss."
After Gibbs hustles out of the bullpen, Tim slumps back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he runs his hand across his face. Finally alone, he allows himself to relax slightly. While he knows that he should be checking the bank accounts of Dukakis' coworkers for a ten thousand dollar windfall, he runs a trace on Tony's cell phone instead. Even though Tony's been on lockdown in the Hoover Building for over a week, just knowing his location gives Tim comfort.
When he doesn't get a hit on the number, he starts another search. The next failure makes his chest tighten. By the time his fifth trace closes out, Tim can only stare at the monitor in shock.
Tony's gone.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
2:15pm – Right in Front of Los Niños Nuevos – Columbia Heights, Washington, DC –
When a cold afternoon breeze bites through his leather jacket, Tony shivers and pulls it closer to his body. The bright autumn sun high overhead deceives the air's briskness. Walking down the deserted sidewalk, he heads towards a seedy bar that the FBI believes to be Carreras' newest hangout. Sandwiched between two abandoned buildings, it has a fluorescent yellow sign with Spanish writing that advertises the local watering hole.
A square jawed man leans against the moldy bricks, and Tony flashes the star tattoo on his neck.
If the FBI's intel is right, Carreras should be enjoying his weekly beer right now.
He inhales slowly.
"You go in," the man hisses, voice heavily accented.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll go when I feel like it. Just wanna enjoy the weather a bit more. You hear it's supposed to snow next week?" Tony rambles, disgusted by his cover's propensity for inane dissertation.
The man raises his eyebrows at Tony's broad grin. Deciding not to tempt fate, Tony ducks into the darkened building. The stench of cheap alcohol and cheaper women assaults his senses before his eyes even adjust to the light. He sees a few misguided young men hunched over an uneven bar while two women in tight shirts and nonexistent skirts try to earn a drink. When he notices two thugs guarding a door in the back, he figures Carreras must have commandeered a room for his business. He moves towards them, cringing every time he yanks his boot off the sticky floor.
Not bothering to address the men, Tony starts to enter the back room. One of the guards roughly pushes him away while the other pulls open his jacket to display a handgun in the waist of his jeans.
"Hm, nice piece, whaddya got there, man? Beretta 92? Or is it a 96? No wait, don't tell me. You know, you lose all your cred with that gun. That's a chick's gun. I got myself a Glock, nice big barrel…with nice big bullets," he says, barely suppressing a grin when the guard's eye twitches.
"It'd still cap your sorry ass."
"I'd die of embarrassment before your bullet touched me."
The twitch turns into a spasm as the guard pulls his weapon out.
"Whoa, whoa, Hector, calm down." The other man slides in front of the gun. "Look man, you might wanna split before you get yourself killed."
"Carreras in there?" Tony points at the door.
"What?"
"You deaf or just don't speak English? Is Enrico Carreras back there?"
With his features tight in anger, the other guard steps out of Hector's way.
"What's your business?"
"Tell Carreras that Masterson's in town and that my business is with him."
