Author note: I broke this last chapter into two - there is an obvious break point - but my husband is due back in about an hour and I'm going to spend time with him so I am posting the two chapters at the same time.
Chapter 13 - A Man's Job (penultimate chapter)
Palmer stood outside the modest cottage nervously clutching his brown-paper wrapped shoe box. If he squinted really hard, he could just about see the NCIS car parked way down the street. Or was that another car?
The earwig felt slightly more familiar wedged in his ear canal than previously but the microphone under his shirt was scratching precisely the same spot as last time.
"Today, Palmer." Gibbs' impatience echoed in his ear. Instinctively he looked towards the sound but it was in the opposite direction to the car. He hoped they couldn't see him.
He raised a hesitant hand and rapped twice on the door. Hearing nothing on the other side, he raised his hand again only to have the door swing open in front of him.
"Yes?"
Palmer looked down at the man in the wheelchair. He looked exactly the same as the one in the picture which was no mean feat for a Navy file shot. Stocky and well built, the man must have been a foreboding presence as a Marine. Palmer took a deep breath and blurted the speech he had rehearsed. Unfortunately, he had rehearsed with Abby.
"Um," he started, "Mr Lundom? I've replaced Matt Jonstone in the, ah, delivery and, well, I've lost the address and your replacement doesn't have it and I didn't want to go back to the Base Commander because it's my first time and he already doesn't like me…"
"Get inside," hissed Lundom, wheeling himself backwards into the room. "And close the door."
Palmer stepped inside hastily and pulled the door shut behind him. It responded with an ominous, prison-worthy 'screech...clunk'.
"Who knows you're here," demanded Lundom.
"Ah, no one," said Jimmy nervously. "I was just going to drop in and get the address and go."
Suddenly from beneath his seat, Lundom drew out a gun. "Change of plans," he snarled.
Palmer's brain was whirring through a million clever cryptic things to say to let the NCIS agents know that their help was required. Unfortunately, his throat had closed over denying air to his vocal chords so the staggeringly brilliant lines flitted away.
He had never stared down the end of a barrel before, and he hoped he would never have to again. No – hold on – he hoped to still be alive to have the choice of never looking down one again. It was fascinating in a sort of terrifying way: shiny, solid metal. It looked more substantial than he remembered the ones he had seen cradled safely in Special Agent halters. At least he understood the gun angle now: from his seat, Lundom was holding it outstretched and above his head.
Reflexively, he held out the box. If that was all the man wanted, he could have it. It was full random objects Abby had filled to sound and weigh like the original contents, but by the time Lundom found out, he'd be safe.
Lundom cocked the gun. "I'll claw it out of your cold dead hands, thanks."
"What?" the strangled sound squeaked out.
"I don't need a witness," Lundom explained.
The last thing Palmer felt was a piece of hard metal slamming into his forehead. He didn't even hear the shot that caused it.