Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.
MISTAKEN IDENTITY
Chapter 14
As late afternoon turned to night, the Fairfax County Fire Department called in four heavy rescue trucks from the DC area to provide flood lighting and to assist in securing the remains of the warehouse. Despite the heavy-duty equipment, it was estimated that it would take at least another three hours before the situation was contained and the fire-ravaged structure was declared stable. Only then would the agents be granted access to process the scene, recover the body and search through the rubble for any others.
Waiting to be allowed access to the building was intolerable. Gibbs was a man of action and all this inaction tore at the lead agent's nerves. As his team attempted to quash all feelings of distress and anxiety about their missing teammate, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his car keys. Leaving McGee in charge he headed back to the Navy Yard to report to the director; request additional teams to process the huge crime scene and, most of all, to provide a shoulder for Abby.
Feeling similarly impatient and unproductive, Fornell muttered, "I'll be back in an hour," and hitched a ride to the Hoover Building with the other FBI agents.
McGee instructed Ziva and Morrison to speak with any witnesses and commence a door to door of nearby offices and warehouses. As the warehouse was located in a semi-remote, commercial area, they knew that most people would have left for the day but were grateful for the opportunity to concentrate on something other than Tony's fate.
McGee drove the other agency sedan to the safe house where Tony had been staying - Bricker's Silverado was still parked out front and for a moment his heart leapt at the possibility that Tony was here, safe and unharmed.
He cautiously approached the house and, hearing no sounds from within, drew his SIG and used his lock picks to open the front door. As he entered the front room he couldn't help but be disappointed not to find his senior field agent, reposing on the couch with his feet on the coffee table and his Cheshire Cat grin lighting up the room.
He grimaced as several of Tony's disgusting little "housemates" crawled quickly across the floor and out of sight. McGee went room to room to ensure the house was empty. Tony's clothes were still in his duffle, his bathroom kit was on the vanity and McGee frowned at the empty blister pack of Tylenol 4 in the bathroom trash. Finding no other evidence that Tony had been at the house in the last few hours, he returned to the warehouse to re-join his team.
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With the director sufficiently briefed, additional teams and the ME's being mobilised and Abby putting on a thinly veiled, brave face, Gibbs climbed into the sedan and drove back to the warehouse. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone; he could have called Vance and given his report; he could have called in his request for additional teams and although it would not have been his preference, he could also have called Abby and done his best to console her by phone.
He was glad for the time alone in the car, for the privacy it allowed him and time to gather his thoughts. The tension that had been his constant companion since Tony commenced this undercover assignment had lodged itself like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. He shook his head, refusing the dark thoughts any further licence and parked the car at the safety barrier. He took two deep breaths, ensured his game face was firmly in place then he exited the car and walked purposefully toward his team.
Ducky and Palmer arrived shortly thereafter, bearing hot tea and coffee and joining the team in a staid and sombre vigil as they waited for access. It was an extremely apprehensive team that approached the warehouse when the Fire Department gave the all clear.
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Carlos Torres paced impatiently in the small dimly lit bedroom - his call to Matteo Lopez had not gone well. Lopez was furious at the loss of their C-4 supply and at the attention the explosion and subsequent fire would, no doubt, attract from various law enforcement agencies. However, it was the death of another weapons specialist and potentially serious injury to the other, that had Lopez ready to blow a gasket. Lopez was a powerful man and with the operation coming to a close, Torres knew that he was fast becoming dispensable in his boss' eyes.
He looked across the room at the man who lay unconscious in the narrow cot, growing increasingly impatient for him to wake. This should never have happened. Their previous weapons specialist, Tomas Estefan, had warned that the imported blasting caps were highly unstable. Lopez hadn't listened – driven by his obsession he had ordered them to proceed anyway. Despite that, Torres was sure that Lopez would blame him for this mess. He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly as he remembered those last few moments at the Fairfax warehouse: -
Deafening explosions came one after the other in quick succession as the heat and impact of each blast caused a chain reaction effect on the other boxes. Torres entered the building and knew immediately that the shipment was lost. Dark, toxic smoke was billowing from within the warehouse and emergency services would soon be on their way. They heard the faint shouts coming from the break room and, staying low, they covered their mouths and noses, located the missing men and helped guide them to the exit.
Doing a quick head count, Torres cursed vehemently, realising that their two weapons specialists were most likely dead. He shuddered involuntarily, thinking how Matteo Lopez' would react to the news. With the thick smoke making it almost impossible to see he turned for the exit when his foot impacted with something lying on the ground. Realising he had found a body, he placed his hands against the man's chest, relieved to feel a heartbeat. With smoke stinging his eyes he grabbed the man under the arms and dragged him to the exit.
Upon reaching the door, he found his men had brought the truck and Torres' car from the parking lot. They assisted him to lift the unconscious man clear of the building and did a quick check of his respirations and his pulse rate - both were rapid but strong. Blood flowed freely from a deep gash on the left side of his head and although his clothes and hair were slightly singed and covered in soot he did not appear to be burned.
Torres strode towards his car, coughing harshly from the rancid smoke. He popped the trunk and removed a first aid bag, tossing it to a thin, angular man kneeling by the injured man's side.
"Vargas, take him to your house. I'll meet you there," he ordered.
"Carlos, he needs a hospital, man," Vargas protested.
Torres suppressed his growing panic, as the sound of the approaching sirens grew louder.
"Get him out of here now and make sure he stays alive!" Torres barked as one man got behind the wheel of the truck and the others lifted the unconscious man into the back and climbed in.
Despite their attempts to rouse him, the injured man hadn't so much as twitched since they'd brought him here and Torres knew he could be seriously injured. There was no time to find another weapons specialist - if he was going to re-establish himself in Lopez' eyes, he needed this man to survive and, for the next few days at least, their lives were co-dependant.
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The firemen had located the body at the northern most end of the large storage area. Following the directions given by the fire fighters, Gibbs led his team and Fornell through the smouldering remains of the warehouse toward the body. As they drew nearer, the acrid smell of burnt hair and flesh washed over them.
Morrison paled, revulsion filling his throat and threatening to spill out. Noticing the younger agent's distress, McGee went to his aid.
"Morrison?" McGee said.
"I'm sorry, …I just…I never thought it would...the smell is…"
McGee reached into his pocket and withdrew a small container of Vicks.
"Place some of this under your nose and try to breathe through your mouth."
"That helps?" Morrison asked hopefully.
"Not much," McGee confessed. "You wanna sit this one out?"
Morrison wanted to say yes but then glanced ahead to Gibbs who had already reached the body and was speaking with Ducky and Fornell. Morrison's expression faltered.
"I really shouldn't," he replied.
"There are two more teams on the way," McGee said. "Meet them at the gate and tell them to start searching from the southern end of the warehouse, stay with them, we'll call if we need you. Oh, and Fornell has a team from the FBI coming to process Sanchez' car and to transport it back to the Hoover Building."
Morrison chanced another worried glance at the lead agent.
"Go! Don't make me order you, Probie," McGee said, watching as relief swept over the younger man and he jogged out of the ruins.
Having overheard the conversation, Ziva moved to the acting senior field agent's side.
"McGee, Morrison needs to get used to such things if he is to be a crime scene investigator," she said.
"Does anyone ever get used to this, Ziva?" McGee asked. "He just needs to find his own way."
"Then why let him go?"
"Because when the Boss was hurt on that Turkish freighter and I couldn't face going into that laundry room - my senior field agent cut me some slack," McGee answered solemnly.
The mention of their partner brought the gravity of the situation, crushing down upon them. Their eyes reflected the same fears as they desperately tried to curb the storm of emotion coursing through them.
"Come, McGee," Ziva said, placing her hand on his arm. "We have work to do."
Resolutely, they took their places by Gibbs' side as the lead agent, Fornell, Ducky and Palmer stood over the pungent remains of the body. There was a malicious familiarity about staring at a body burnt beyond recognition and scouring every nauseating, shockingly disfigured inch for anything to prove that it was not your partner.
"Boss?" McGee asked hesitantly. "Is…is it Tony?"
"It's impossible to tell at this time, Timothy," Ducky said ruefully, crouching to take a better look. "By the look of the devastating injuries, he would have been standing very close to the explosion and was very likely killed instantly by the blast concussion. I'm afraid identification will have to wait until we can get him back to autopsy and check his dental records."
Gibbs spoke softly after a long moment of silence, the rare, hollow timbre made his voice sound raspy and hoarse.
"McGee, shoot and sketch. Ziva, bag and tag. Morrison…where's Morrison?"
"I…er…sent him to wait for the back-up teams, Boss and to help them start searching the far end of the warehouse."
Gibbs nodded and his team and the ME's set about their assigned tasks. He clenched his fists and forced himself to relax them again as he looked thoughtfully at the body. Tony had narrowly escaped death numerous times. He had been unceremoniously shoved from an aeroplane, he'd hung by his fingertips from a multi-story parking lot, been knocked out, shot, shot at, beaten and stricken with the pneumonic plague... did fate now demand to be satisfied? Was Tony spared from death previously, only to have him cruelly snatched away from them now?
He pushed the memories and the dark thoughts aside, unwilling to deal with them, and allowed himself one final demand before assisting the team with the crime scene.
"Don't do this, DiNozzo," he muttered. "Don't do it."
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Ducky and Palmer had placed the body in the coroner's van and began their journey back to the Navy Yard. Fornell and Gibbs were following close behind when Gibbs' cell rang.
"Agent Gibbs, it's Morrison. I've found a cell in the rubble up here, Sir, it's pretty trashed but Abby still may be able to extract some data from it."
"Bag it and bring it in," Gibbs said.
"There's something else," Morrison continued. "There's more blood. On a wall and on the floor."
"How much blood?"
"Doesn't look like enough to be life-threatening. We're still looking but there doesn't appear to be another body," Morrison said. "I've taken photos and collected samples for analysis," he replied.
"Leave the other teams to finish up – tell them to call me if they find anything. Catch a ride back to the office with McGee and get those samples to Abby ASAP," Gibbs instructed, snapping his cell closed.
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The front door of Vargas' house swung open with a ferocity that nearly forced it from its hinges and a tall, dark-haired man wearing an Armani suit and hand-made Italian shoes stepped menacingly inside. Torres was immediately on his feet.
"Senor Lopez," he said, startled by the man's presence. "We weren't expecting you!"
"I wasn't expecting to be here," Lopez snarled. "But it seems my lead man can no longer be trusted to run this operation without everything going to hell!"
Torres dropped his gaze to the floor.
"Where is Bricker?" Lopez snarled.
Torres gestured to the door of an adjoining bedroom.
"Vargas is with him. He hasn't regained consciousness yet."
Opening the door they entered the small room and saw the man lying motionless on the narrow cot. Lopez stood over him, noting the greyish pallor, the deep head gash and the blood that had clotted in his hair and stained the pillow beneath his head. Gripping the man's chin, Lopez turned his head to get a better look at the wound.
"How long has he been out?" he asked.
"Since the explosion, about four hours," Torres replied.
"And the other one?"
"We couldn't reach him."
"So, you're telling me that with our deadline approaching we not only lost our entire C-4 supply but we lost another weapons specialist," Lopez remarked looking back at the unconscious man. "Maybe two!"
"Yes, Sir. Estefan warned us, when this operation began, that the blasting caps were dangerous," Torres defended.
"Looks like he was right," Lopez said coldly, looking back at the unconscious man. "Get him a doctor – I don't care how you do it, but get him back on his feet fast!"
"A doctor but…"
"We need more weapons! We're days out from our deadline and we need him to oversee the assembly operation," Lopez snarled. "Get him on his feet and contact Castillo to set up another weapons swap from COL. Don't fail me again, Carlos, we've come too far to stop now."
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The sorrowful atmosphere of the autopsy room was almost unbearable as Ducky and Palmer made final preparations for the autopsy of the body retrieved from the warehouse fire.
Although Ducky insisted that every courtesy and respect be afforded to all of the 'guests' that visited his morgue, tonight the usual genial banter he and his assistant participated in was noticeably absent.
They had sent the blood samples for analysis and prepared the body and the equipment. Ducky was about to request the first instrument from his assistant when Jimmy mumbled an apology and hurried toward the adjoining restroom.
He took a deep wavering breath and closed his eyes, before washing his face vigorously with cold water and reaching to the shelf, blindly searching for his glasses.
"Looking for these?" Ducky asked kindly, handing Jimmy his glasses and a paper towel.
Jimmy dried his face and looked at his mentor with a mixture of shame and regret.
"I'm sorry, Doctor, I don't know what came over me – that's never happened before," he explained.
"Nonsense, my boy. What we do here everyday is difficult in any circumstance but today it is exceedingly so," Ducky said with a gentleness that was almost Jimmy's undoing.
In his time at NCIS, working and studying under Doctor Mallard, the smell of blood and the gruesome and often bizarre causes of death had brought hundreds of bodies to their autopsy table - that was something Jimmy had learnt to accept. However, after the notorious car bombing incident when they thought Tony had been killed at the wheel of his beloved Mustang, the sight and smell of a friend's blood; a friend's burnt flesh and hair; a friend burnt beyond recognition; was something the assistant ME had hoped to never experience again.
He blinked to clear his vision and turned his face from Ducky, ashamed of his emotion.
"Deep breaths, Mr Palmer," Ducky instructed kindly.
A long moment passed before Jimmy found his voice. "Doctor Mallard, you've known Tony longer than I have - how many of his nine lives has he used?"
Ducky pursed his lips in thought. "At last count, my boy…seventeen."
Jimmy couldn't help the small sound that escaped from his throat, a hybrid of a laugh and a sob.
"Damn you, DiNozzo," he said without malice. "This is so getting old!"
"Anthony's been a good friend to you, Jimmy, to all of us," Ducky said. "But let's not plan his memorial until we're certain he's left us, hmmm?"
Jimmy looked at his mentor noticing the lines that bored deeply into the corners of his kind, blue eyes and around his mouth. He knew that, despite that "stiff upper lip" British façade, the elderly man was hurting as much as anyone. His regard for his Ducky was immeasurable. The older man had always been an outstanding teacher but - at that moment - he didn't need a mentor, he needed a friend and Ducky's composure and understanding gave him the strength to steel his resolve and go back to work.
Resolutely, they returned to the autopsy room, determined to draw strength from each other. The shrill of the fax machine sounded as they neared the body.
Jimmy walked, apprehensively, across the room to retrieve the printout. As he read the results, his mouth was suddenly dry and his heart pounded so fast that he could hardly take a full breath.
"Blood results?" Ducky asked.
"Dental records," Jimmy replied, reading the results again to be certain.
"Mr Palmer, please don't leave me imagining the worst!" Ducky scolded.
The huge smile that appeared on his assistant's young face was an answer to Ducky's most fervent prayer.
"It's not Tony," Jimmy said, his knees almost buckling in relief. "Dental records don't match Tony's."
"I do believe that young man has just used life number eighteen," Ducky said triumphantly. "Hold the fort, Mr Palmer, I intend to deliver this news, personally!"
"Wait, Doctor!" Jimmy called, the grin disappearing from his face as he continued. "There's more news."
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Still dressed in his scrubs, Ducky stepped from the elevator and made his way to the bullpen. As he expected, the entire team plus Abby and Fornell, were present, refusing to leave until their fears had been confirmed or allayed.
"Duck?" Gibbs said, immediately getting to his feet. "You got something?"
"Yes, Jethro, I do," Ducky replied, his expression so serious that Abby gasped as her breath caught. "We have a dental records match – the body downstairs, is not Anthony!"
Their reaction to the news was as varied as their personalities as Gibbs ran imperceptibly trembling fingers through his short silver hair, Ziva allowed a relaxed smile at Morrison and McGee and Abby hugged each other tightly, each feeling overwhelming relief.
"Ducky, you said you had a match for the dental records?" Ziva asked.
"Yes, we do," Ducky said gravely and turned to face Fornell. "I am terribly sorry, Agent Fornell, the dental records match those of FBI Agent, Ramon Sanchez."
Gibbs found himself warring with feelings of relief and misplaced guilt as he watched his old friend's shoulders slump wearily. He had lost men before, in battle and in the field, and he knew it was something that never got easier.
"I'm sorry, Tobias," he offered.
"I need to contact his family," Fornell said, his face implacable to all but those who knew him well. "You'll keep me apprised, send me a copy of the autopsy?"
Gibbs nodded, watching as Fornell entered the lift. "Something else, Duck?"
"Yes, Jethro, I'm afraid there is. The blood sample that Agent Morrison collected from the warehouse is type A positive."
"Same as Tony's," Gibbs stated. "Abby, how long until the DNA results come through?"
Abby checked her watch. "They should be back now," she said. "I found hair follicles mixed with the blood sample on the wall, so we have two sources to check."
"Can you check the results from here?" Gibbs asked
"You betcha, with the new whiz-bang technology, we can check them from anywhere, well…almost anywhere…you'd still need to circumnavigate the firewalls and the super-duper encryption spy-ware and…"
"Abs?"
"Checking the results from here, Gibbs," Abby replied.
She used McGee's computer to access her own database and chewed anxiously on her lower lip as the results appeared on the monitor.
"Gibbs, according to the DNA results, the blood and the hair belong to…"
"Tony," Gibbs finished.
"He's still alive though, right?" McGee asked. "Otherwise, why would they take him with them?"
"McGee is right," Ziva said. "If Tony's cover had been blown, they would have killed him right there."
"Unless they think they can use a federal agent as leverage in case they get caught," Morrison added.
"I'm afraid there's another urgent consideration," Ducky ventured. "Judging by the photos of the blood pattern taken at the crime scene, it would appear that Anthony has suffered another head injury."
"What are we looking at, Duck?"
"Well, of course, it's impossible to know without examining him," Ducky said.
"Best guess," Gibbs replied.
"If the Tylenol 4 Timothy found in Anthony's bathroom is any indication, his headaches are still causing him considerable discomfort. At best, we could be looking at another serious concussion."
"And at worst?"
The grave look on the ME's face answered the question loud and clear.
"Wherever he is," Ducky said, "he needs urgent medical attention – we need to find him fast."
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Thanks for taking the time to read my story, L