A.N. Another chapter! And you didn't have to wait a full week for it!

Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS. No, in fact I do, but the man shoving a gun in my back won't allow me to type that and wants me to sign over the rights to him. Ah, just another overly-enthusiastic fanfictioner...

Chapter Fourteen

Ziva was anxious, her features and her stomach twisting at the thought that there wasn't anything she could do to alleviate her partner's sorrow at that point. When McGee, exhausted and slightly light-headed, had stumbled into the squad-room and broken the news of his father's ownership of the super-fuel, Tony's reaction had been remarkably subdued. He simply nodded when McGee announced he was going home for a few hours and stood immobile as his co-worker left. But a few minutes later he'd cursed loudly, in a crude fashion Ziva had never heard him use before, shoved his hands through his hair, punched the half-wall of his cubicle hard and left the bullpen, kicking trash cans, chairs and walls as he went. Ziva was grateful it was already 8 pm and most of the other agents had left, ensuring that his melt-down had been fairly private. Not that she wouldn't have persuaded any potential witnesses to keep that particular incident to themselves, but this certainly made things easier. A disillusioned frown suddenly crumpled her face. Who I am kidding, she thought bitterly. None of this is easy.

She hadn't heard from Tony for the better part of an hour when she suddenly decided she couldn't take wondering where he was any longer. She grabbed her desk phone and started to dial, startled when Gibbs looked up from his computer and uttered a commanding, "Don't."

"Why?" she answered defiantly, daring him to stop her.

"He'll come back when he's ready. Let him be alone right now, if it's what he needs." Gibbs stood up and stepped up to her desk, laying a comforting and restraining hand on the arm which still held the half-dialled phone. Ziva stared at him for a moment, grasping his meaning and contemplating his opinion before sighing and setting the black handset back into its cradle.

"I hope you're right," she sighed as she looked down, defeated.

Me too, thought Gibbs as he patted her arm and left his team's allotted space. Coffee.

The phone rang, emitting a shrill, pulsing noise in the night lull of the bullpen's din. A pale hand grabbed it in the light cone of a desk lamp, answering it with a tired voice. "David?"

"Ziva..."

She sat up straighter and leaned forward, resting an elbow on the flat surface of her desk, laying her hand over her forehead and tilting her head as though it would help her hear better. "Tony? Where are you?" Her voice was hurried and exuded worry.

"I'm... I went for a run and went too far. I'm in Anacostia Park and I don't have my wallet, so I can't take a cab... Could you come and get me?" His voice through the phone sounded small and adrift. Ziva felt her heart tighten in a way she was not accustomed to, the pain from his tone somehow triggering an aching response in her own body.

"Of course. Where are you exactly?" she asked matter-of-factly. This wasn't the time or place to be anything but efficient.

He gave her an address and ended the call with a quick "Thank you."

Ziva got up and walked over to his corner, opening his drawers haphazardly. It had been snowing for almost half an hour and she knew Tony had left without a coat, let alone a scarf or spare clothes, and was sure to be wet and freezing by now. He must really have been upset to run in his new leather Italian shoes, she thought, smiling slightly through her concern. She found gym clothes, thick sweats and spare socks and shoes, stuffed them all in a backpack and paused. Should she call Gibbs? It's better to ask for forgiveness than permission. What was the number of that rule again? She left a scribbled note taped on Gibbs' computer – probably the most use the idle machine had seen in weeks, if not months – and decided that if he needed anything he'd call her. By that time she'd already be gone and he wouldn't be able to do much about it. She grabbed her own winter gear and rushed out of the room, clutching the backpack, her cell phone, her badge and gun, the post-it with the address, her coat and her car keys.

Gibbs sipped the scorching coffee, smiling when he felt it spread throughout his body, the heat emanating from his chest to his limbs, invading him with comfort. He knew the caffeine would kick in shortly and the double effect of warmth and energy would please his tired body and intellect.

He frowned as he turned his mind back to the case; if Tony wasn't back yet, he'd let Ziva call him and drag his arse back to the Navy Yard. He didn't care if he resented it; Tony was staying here where Gibbs could keep an eye on him and stop him from doing something overly stupid. Sometimes tough love was what one needed. Or at least what that particular DiNozzo needed.

Gibbs exited the lift to find a dark, empty bullpen, only lit by the emergency exit lights and a small lamp on Ziva's desk. Where was Ziva? How did his whole team disappear on him, one after the other? This case was really getting to everybody, and if he was honest with himself, it was getting to him too. He couldn't wait for the whole thing to be over, for his agents to simply come in and do their work efficiently, in the manner he had taught them; for the politicians to stop interfering in matters in which they did nothing but put lives at risk, and for lawyers to be appointed by the state and to wear cheap nylon suits just like they ought to, and not expensive clothes from designers whose name he couldn't pronounce. He hated second guessing himself and tiptoeing around his team. He wanted a good old, straightforward murder!

He spotted the piece of paper on his computer screen and snatched it up, lighting his own desk lamp. Gone to fetch Tony – Ziva. He sat down heavily. Short and effective, as always. He was relieved she knew where Tony was. One thing he didn't have to worry about anymore. Now, back to the case. He reached for the financial files McGee had printed for him earlier that day, knowing he wouldn't work on what only amounted to a prop in his working space – his computer. He was however stopped in his inspection of the second page of head-ache inducing charts and numbers by the sound of the Director clearing his throat, up on the lookout over the bullpen.

"You got that authorisation yet, Leon?" he asked, without conviction.

"No. But I did get a few interesting phone calls." He paused, making sure he'd captured Gibb's attention. If the way the silver-haired sniper was glaring at him from the floor below was any indication, he hated HHHh "DiNozzo Senior. It's been nearly twenty-four hours now since you took him into custody and several senators are intent on making sure that all federal institutions respect the fundamental laws which make our country a great democracy" Vance quoted, his tone cynic.

Gibbs' jaw clenched. "Let's charge him with terrorism, then, and make it legal indefinite custody," he suggested in a snarl.

Vance shook his head. "You can't. There's no evidence to that yet. All you have is him lying about his connection to Avon Grüden. That's only an obstruction to justice, and all that'll get him with these lawyers of his is a fine he won't give a damn about and a slap on the wrist by one of his judge friends. You have to let him go, Gibbs."

Mr Anthony DiNozzo Sr was very pleased with himself. His lawyers had obeyed his orders to call a few influential friends who owed him a couple of favours, and even that hawk Gibbs hadn't been able to find an excuse to keep him in that dreadful, ill-lit shoe-box of a room where he'd spent the last twenty-four hours on an uncomfortable metal chair. He had however enjoyed watching his Harvard lawyers sitting slumped on the probably unsanitary floor and against the wall. Serves you right for charging me so much, you scarecrows! he thought.

Gibbs had left him in manacles the entire day and night, allowing the cuffs to be removed only when it couldn't be avoided, which turned out to mean only on bathroom visits. The man had looked murderous as he'd wordlessly removed them a few minutes ago, glowering at him the entire time. Senior hadn't been able to bite back a chipper and triumphant "Goodnight, Special Agent Gibbs," savouring his victory over the man his son so obviously looked up to. He's never been able to stand on his own and never could choose his role models properly, he thought with disdain. Retrospectively, angering Gibbs further probably didn't constitute a very good move in that game they both knew they were playing, each with their assets and strengths. Gibbs seemed like the kind of obsessive cop who'd tape pictures and reports to his basement walls and draw felt-tip lines between them years after a case had been officially deemed 'cold'. Should look into shipping him to Alaska. I wonder if Senator Alleghan could do that. He's pretty close friend with SecNav...

That particular thought was halted when he stepped into the NCIS building's entrance hall and noticed his son and that chilling woman, David, walking in through the sliding doors. He looked as badly dressed as ever, in sweats and wet, un-styled, plainly appalling hair, and sporting red-rimmed eyes and a decidedly grey complexion. He'd thought his son had improved in that area, having seen him wearing was what definitely an Armani suit, if only one of the cheaper ones, the previous day, but he'd obviously been wrong.

Tony stopped when he took in the sight his father offered; the bulky man, in astonishingly unwrinkled clothes, was ensconced in a team of lawyers who matched their steps with his in a protective and fretfully apprehensive manner. His father's eyes lightened as he directed a radiant smile at Tony and Ziva, and met them in front of the reception desk.

"Tony," he exclaimed. "How are you, my boy?"

"They say you were involved in treason and arms dealing, dad." Tony said tonelessly, his voice and eyes flat and expressionless.

"Good thing my son's a fed then, eh?" he winked. He winked.

"Did you do it? Did you, dad?" Tony tried to keep himself detached from the situation, but to Ziva he sounded desperate, pleading with his father, hoping that this was just a misunderstanding and that his father wasn't just another of the criminals they put away.

"Don't answer that, Mr DiNozzo," one of the suited lawyers ordered. "We should go now."

"Oh come on Tony, can't you just have Gibbs bury that?" he pleaded. "If I've ever taught you anything, you must have something on him to, how can I say it, convince him to let it go?" he added with a wink. Again.

Tony looked at him in disgust, taking in his falsely sweet expression.

"No! No Dad, I don't, and if I did I would never use it to blackmail Gibbs or let you off the hook for murder, smuggling or whatever the hell you're doing!" Tony fired back, his face turning redder by the second. His voice started off menacingly quiet but rose until he was screaming. "Is that why you requested NCIS to work the case? You hoped we wouldn't investigate you? You wanted to influence me into, what, bending the rules for you?"

"Hey! Junior! Don't you dare yell at me like that!" Senior cut him, his voice just as loud and his face turning from scarlet to an alarming eggplant. "I'm your father and I deserve your respect and I want you to comply when I ask you for something, as a good son should. But you never were good son, were you?" he snickered. "Always too soft, always running back to your nannies' skirts. Even after I put you through those military schools you had no backbone."

Tony's fists were curled up so tight Ziva was sure his knuckle bones would burst through the skin. His neck looked like it had spent three days unprotected under the Indian sun and the veins on his face seemed about to burst. She had never seen him so… so… mad.

"You were and you are nothing but a burden, Tony. Even your nickname is pathetic, I knew I shouldn't have let your mother call you that when you were a child. She was always all over you like you were some precious, fragile little girl."

Tony's entire body shuddered at the mention of his mother, but Senior didn't pause before delivering more cruel blows.

"You are a poor excuse for a son, Junior," his father spit, "throwing the family business back in my face and walking away to become a cop, of all things! After your foolish fantasies of being a sports athlete and earning a living that way, you had to find something even worse to do. And now you won't even help me! Do you even know the meaning of the word family?"

Ziva couldn't take it anymore. She glanced at Tony who appeared to be holding back tears and a very painful punch to the jaw. He was already leaning in to deliver it when she stepped in, grabbing his father's elbow hard, brutally digging in her fingers and shoving him out of the lobby, through the door and into the waiting car. She kept her hand on his arm, twisting it as he tried to sit up in the car seat.

She bent over to whisper menacingly in his ear. "You ever tell him anything like that again, you ever think of hurting him in any way your sick brain can create, I will kill you so skilfully, no one will ever recognize your body, you worthless benzona." And she slammed the car door in his startled face.

A.N. I know from the story traffic thingy-midget that I have a few readers from Israël. Please forgive me if Ziva's swearing offended you, or if it is inaccurate. I researched it, but most English-Hebrew translators give the Hebrew in, well, Hebrew letters (duh Azilée, what did you expect?) which makes things pretty complicated Anyway, Hebrew is next on my to-learn list, just before Spanish, so I should be able to discuss – politely – with you in a few years.

So DiNozzo Sr has finally shown his true colours... Don't worry, I'm not done with him yet! I'd say we're about two thirds through the story, but then again I thought it would be wrapped up in three chapters when I started it, so I'm not a very good fore-caster. All you need to know for now is, there is still a lot on that plot outline sheet of mine.

Reviews are always nice...