Earlier

Tony awoke from the nightmare and rubbed a hand across his face, half-expecting to find Kate's blood on his hands. He pulled himself out of bed with no enthusiasm.

A knock at his door made him jump—and realize that he'd slept until almost 9 a.m. He really needed to lay off the Vicodin. He pulled on a pair of pants, looking down at his wrinkled shirt and thinking it would have to do.

"Enter."

Robert "Big Bubba" North's massive frame suddenly filled the doorway. "You got a minute?"

A wing of panic fluttered through his gut at Bubba's slightly anxious tone. Please tell me you two didn't do anything stupid. I'll be so fired if anyone finds out what I did. He shook his head and motioned the big man to take a seat. At least I'd get off this damned boat, though…

"Everything all right?" Tony asked somewhat warily.

"No," Bubba answered, running a giant hand through his blond hair. He saw the sick look on Tony's face and said, "Oh, no. It's not that, Agent DiNozzo. We learned our lesson, and I meant it when we said it wouldn't happen again. I don't think you understand just how much we appreciate what you did for us. It took a lot of guts."

Tony let out a slow breath. "Okay, good. You're welcome. What's up, then?"

"It's one of my bunkmates. I think he's on something."

Great, Tony thought, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through his hand as he grabbed a pad and pen. Like I need any more 'roid-raging maniacs around here.

"What's his name?"

"Carlos Palamar. He's real young, cocky. Always talking about the gang he used to be in."

"MS-13?" Tony asked, holding the pad so Bubba couldn't see the awkward way he was holding the pen in his damaged hand.

Bubba nodded. "Yeah. He says he cut ties with them when he enlisted, but I'm not so sure."

"Why's that?"

"He talks about them all the time. I mean, part of it is probably that he's young and wants to sound like a badass. But he doesn't talk like it's a part of his life that's over. He gets packages from 'friends' a lot and immediately the stories start again. He gets real squirrely sometimes and I noticed last night that his pupils were bigger than biscuits. I can't tell you what drug he's on, but it's got to be something."

Tony nodded, trying to write it all down. Good thing he had a good memory; his writing looked like a thousand wiggling worms caught in the throes of violent death. "You've never seen him actually take anything? Pills, needles?"

Bubba shook his blond head. "No, but he has this little bag that he takes everywhere with him. I don't think he knows I know about it. He's real careful with it."

Tony thought about that for a moment, thinking it should be pretty easy to find the kid and bust him with whatever drug of choice was in the bag. The hard part would be figuring out how he was beating the drug tests. "Anything else you want to add?"

"Nope. That's it."

Tony set the pad aside, watching Bubba's eyes go wide as he caught sight of Tony's swollen hand. "Thanks, Bubba," he said before the big man could comment. "I really appreciate you coming to me. And I'll keep your name out of it as much as I can."

Bubba nodded and stood, his eyes still on Tony's hand. "Sure, Tony. You're welcome. And I appreciate it. I don't want a pack of crazy MS-13 homies on my back when I get home."

Tony almost cringed at the word "home" and mentally shook himself. What the hell is wrong with me?

Bubba opened the door, but turned back. "That's a hell of a bruise, Tony. I heard you went one on one with Henry Stowell. He's one big dude. Are you okay?"

Tony nodded, uncomfortable with the intensity in Bubba's eyes. "I'm fine. And it wasn't one on one by choice. I'm not that dumb."

The blond man smiled faintly, watching the stiffness with which Tony got up. "It must be tough, though, being the only cop around here."

"You're telling me," Tony said, faking a smile. "No partner to con into doing the paperwork for me."

Bubba smiled. "Take care of yourself, Tony. Thanks for everything."

Tony spent the rest of the morning reading everything he could get his hands on about Carlos Palamar. He was disturbed by the sailor's deep entrenchment with MS-13, and he spent more time reading up on the gang. There was a lot of information but it all boiled down to one fact that he already knew: They were some seriously dangerous people. It was mid-afternoon by the time he finished reading and writing up his conversation with Bubba, and he cursed his slowness. Writing was still excruciating, but he had managed to straighten his index and middle fingers enough to be able to type, albeit slowly. His ring and pinkie fingers were still curled uselessly into his palm, and he knew he'd have to start forcing them straight. The longer he left them curled and motionless, the harder it would be later.

Disregarding his earlier thoughts, Tony popped a Vicodin and headed for the door. According to his schedule, Palamar should be leaving his work station in about an hour and Tony wanted to catch him on his way back to his bunk. He made his way along the corridor, making his rounds of the ship to kill time. He nodded to the crew members who actually acknowledged him but moved along mostly as a ghost.

Palamar left his work station right on time, and Tony fell into step beside the young man. Palamar seemed lost in his own thoughts and took a moment to realize who was beside him.

"Shi—, er, hey Agent DiNozzo," the sailor said, glancing around nervously.

This is too easy sometimes, Tony thought, letting a lazy smile cross his face. "Got a minute, sailor?"

Palamar nodded enthusiastically. "For you, sir? Sure."

Of course you do.

Tony nodded to an open door and followed Palamar into a deserted laundry room. Palamar was looking at him with feigned casual curiosity, but his eyes widened when Tony firmly ordered, "Empty your pockets."

Palamar's hands went to his pants, but he asked, "Why? What's going on?"

Tony leveled a glare at him. "You know, I'd think between the Navy and MS-13, you'd learn to follow an order."

The sailor's eyes got wider and he sputtered, "I don't... I'm not... I'm not in a gang anymore, sir."

Tony smiled a predatory smile. "I never said you were. Empty your pockets."

Palamar did as he was told this time, but he said, "Don't you need probable cause or something to search me?"

"Just like a gangbanger to start quoting laws at me," Tony said, watching Palamar fume as he handed over the little black bag.

"I ain't no gangbanger," Palamar said, his tone furious enough to make Tony wish he'd kept his big mouth shut. He wondered if maybe he should have asked for a replacement, at least until he regained the full use of his right hand.

"Calm down, sailor," Tony said, clumsily opening the bag and finding it empty.

Well, shit.

"What do you keep in this?" Tony asked, his tone neutral even though he was wearily thinking about how much easier it would have been if there had been drugs in the bag.

"Depends," Palamar shrugged.

"On?" Tony asked, the word sharp with his impatience.

"Just depends, brother."

"I am not your brother," Tony said, thoroughly annoyed now. "It's 'Agent DiNozzo' or 'sir' and it really doesn't matter if you don't want to tell me. I'm confiscating this and I'll send it to a lab and they'll tell me for you. Drugs are illegal, in case you hadn't heard, and I'll bust you as soon as those results come back."

Palamar grinned smugly. "Okay, you do that. They won't find any drugs in there. It's empty."

Idiot. Don't you ever watch CSI? "Well then at least I'll know which brand of cookies you keep in your treat bag," he said with a smile of his own.

Palamar's eyes widened again but he didn't say anything.

"And just because I like to be thorough," Tony said, gesturing to the door, "I'm sure you won't mind coming with me for a piss test."

Tony watched his reaction, thinking again how much less work he'd have to do if Palamar had just had the drugs on him.

There was a gift waiting for Tony when he returned to his office later that night. It had been slipped under the door and lay on the floor in the middle of the small room. A single sheet of paper with big block writing screamed up at him: "I know you don't have backup, pig. Have fun watching your back. I know I will."

And a good evening to you too, he thought even as a fine shiver ran down his spine. Shrugging off his unease, he added a silent, And that's "Special Agent Pig" to you, jackass.

Tony grabbed a glove and picked up the note, thinking about the hassle it would be to bag it and send it to a lab. And there was no way he'd send it to Abby; she'd freak out completely.

He stared at the note dangling from his fingers. He'd busted enough sailors for infractions large and small to make plenty of people hate him. He wondered if it was a simple threat or if he should actually be worried. He found himself wondering what Gibbs would do if he knew about it. Would he be worried? Tony shook his head, banishing the painful thoughts of his former boss. He was on his own now. He knew he was technically nothing to Gibbs now, hadn't been since he'd let Jenny go and get herself killed. Sighing, he thought about picking up the phone and calling the captain. He knew he'd have to make an official report about the threat.

A knock on his door made him jump. Hell, like I need any more reasons to be jumpy. Between the nightmares, the not sleeping, the getting the crap kicked out of me… He stuffed the note into a random file on his desk and went to the door.

He almost opened it, knowing it was Benny, but a sudden image of those big bold threats made him call out first. No use taking stupid chances.

"It's Benny," came the big man's voice. "Who the hell else would it be this time of night?"

"Kitchen?" Tony asked as he pulled the door open, needing to get his mind off the note. He didn't answer the question because he didn't feel like lying and because "Someone waiting to kill me" would start a conversation he didn't want to deal with.

"Kitchen," Benny agreed with a grin.

Later that night, Tony lay awake, thinking about what a crappy part of his job watching some guy take a piss was. Palamar was screwed anyway, as soon as those results came back positive in a day or two.

Another career down the drain, but Tony knew he was just doing his job. He forcibly turned his thoughts to Benny's latest chocolaty creation. He fell asleep thinking about its gooey goodness.

Too bad his dreams weren't as sweet.

There were agents crawling all over the warehouse district. He was pretty sure they'd emptied the entire building in pursuit of the dirtbag of the day. Hell, he thought, Jerry the janitor is probably running around here somewhere, brandishing his mop with all the confidence of a street punk with a Tech-9.

He moved deeper into the maze of buildings, watching agents peel off and scatter like shrapnel from a cluster bomb. He made his way along through the alleys, moving quick and low. For what seemed like hours, he followed the whispered voices of his team. After a while, he realized he hadn't seen anyone in a long, long time. No more voices spoke to him through his earpiece. Where had the voices gone?

Feeling a sudden, crippling disorientation, he dropped into a crouch, keeping his back to the nearest wall. He keyed the mike and fought desperately to keep the tremor out of his voice as he tried to contact someone, anyone. He stuffed down his rising panic and tried to think.

Then, with a roar he felt clear to the marrow of his bones, the wall behind him collapsed. He stood transfixed, watching the rubble rain down around him in a full-on concrete monsoon. He wasn't sure what terrified him more—the thought of being crushed, buried by the mountain of broken building or that he found himself suddenly standing out in the open, his cover reduced to a quivering pile of debris.

He closed his eyes, wondering where everyone else had gone. A blade of panic sliced through him and he turned back to the pile to begin searching for survivors—only to find it gone. In fact, everything was gone. He stood upon grease-marked pavement that stretched out in all directions, forever flat and revealing nothing—no people, no buildings, no cars. It was like standing at midnight in the deserted parking lot of hell.

He lifted his hand to speak into the mike there. Gibbs. His team. They would find him, help him. He felt slimy movement in his sleeve and pulled it back to find not communication wires but a snake, coiled tightly, coldly, wetly around his wrist. He watched in shocked fascination as it reared back its scaly head and sank its needle-sharp fangs deep into the palm of his hand.

He shrieked in pain and terror, his frightened wailing echoing across the sheer vacancy of his own private hell. He shook his arm fiercely, only vaguely worried about dislocating the joint with the ferocity of his flailing. The serpent fell away in a spray of bright red blood as its fangs dislodged from his wounded flesh.

He breathed deeply, slowly, trying to stop his wild shaking. He calmed himself enough to start moving again, if only because he had to find his team. There was a killer out there in the vastness of somewhere and they had to find him.

A faint footfall behind him made him whirl and he came face to face with an eight-by-ten glossy mugshot of their quarry perched atop subtly familiar shoulders. He saw the glinting knife in the apparition's hand just before he felt the burning violation of its razor-sharpness. He gasped softly as the blade sank into the soft center of his belly. His hands went immediately for the hilt and he felt his own hot blood pulsing from the wound in sickening syncopation with the racing of his heart.

His mouth was still a soft O of surprise as he tried to make sense of the pain and blood and his strange assailant.

His team. Where was his team? Where was his backup?

His eyes moved from the knife nestled to the hilt inside him to the photo/man standing before him. He watched in stunned shock as a calloused hand moved slowly upward. He sank to his knees onto the endless pavement and tasted the coppery tanginess of the blood suddenly pouring from his mouth just as the hand reached the photo-face.

Swift searing pain ripped through him and he looked down to find the knife gone and his own quivering heart cradled in his blood-drenched hands. He looked up at his killer and realized why.

The photo had fallen away to reveal the man beneath.

It was Gibbs.