Disclaimer : If you recognize it, I still don't own it.
Author's Note : Thanks to all the favoriters, followers, and readers so far. As always, extra thanks to Maunzeli, Skylar Owens, diana teo, angelscatie, jennii.b, and AgentD.6 for the reviews. I truly do appreciate the time you take to let me know how I'm doing.
Thanks to whoever's been archiving my stories in communities. Appreciate that as well.
Just in case anyone missed it, I snuck an update in on Saturday. Read it before you read this one!
This is the chapter (and the rest of the story) where the characters started to run amok with me. They just did whatever they wanted really so it gets a little more interesting (and dangerous).
Enjoy!
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6:13pm – Apartment Complex – Truxton Circle , Washington, DC –
Back leaned flat against the plaster wall, Gibbs stared intently into Ziva's tense face. Shoulders squared towards the door of the apartment where someone saw Lewis enter, she rocked back her weight back, readying herself to kick it open. She only needed Gibbs' nod to set her forth. Somewhere in the building, a baby's screams ripped through the paper-thin walls and his gut clenched. He confirmed the Metro cops' positions down the hallway and wondered why Lewis would choose to hide in plain sight.
Seemed too easy.
"Gibbs?" Ziva questioned, gesturing towards the door.
He nodded slowly, feeling the doorframe break through the wall as she kicked it down. When it splintered off the hinges, a pair of shouts echoed inside the apartment. Rushing inside, the team leader followed the yells into the living room while Ziva covered his flank.
"NCIS!"
"DC PD!"
Over the back of a ratty couch, a man and woman's head popped, their expressions terrified. The woman stood first, pulling a blanket over her unclothed form. Narrowing her eyes at the man, she jumped back onto the couch to pummel him.
"What the hell are you into, you bastard? You didn't tell me - ," she shouted, lashing out until Ziva pushed her into an overstuffed armchair.
Scrambling off the couch, the shirtless man raised his hands. Confused, he glanced between Gibbs and the pair of uniforms before he noticed his destroyed front door.
"Oh come on, guys, what the hell? Is that how you knock? What the hell is going on? Who are you people? What the - ?"
"Maxwell Lewis?" Gibbs interrupted.
Even though he bore a striking resemblance to their suspect, as soon as Gibbs saw the large, brown birthmark on his cheek that he wasn't their suspect.
"Aidan Petrovsky. What's this - ?"
Without another word, Gibbs pushed past the confused officers.
"Hey! Come back here! Who the hell's going to pay for my door?!"
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
6:44pm – Boathouse – Somewhere Outside Washington, DC –
Fingers slick with blood and sweat, McGee carefully unwound the wire that attached the chain-link enclosure to its support beam. When his grip slipped off the smooth metal again, he cursed quietly, hanging his aching head to his chest.
Already managed to get two wires off. Just a few more and there'd be a big enough space for him to escape. Just a few more and he'd be able to go home.
He just wanted to go home.
Tim exhaled slowly, reaching his exhausted fingers for the wire again. With his hands bound behind him, the labor could be described torturous at best. Though as the numbness started to prick its way down his hands, it was becoming nearly impossible.
"Come on. Almost there. Come on, come on. Almost, almost, come on, come on. Yes," Tim murmured, feeling the third piece of wire fall away.
Pushing on the chain-fence, he grinned at the opening that he'd created. Still not quite large enough to fit through, his progress so far had been sufficient. Just as he found the next one, the overhead light flicked on, momentarily blinding him. Tim blinked the spots from his vision as he slid to the opposite side of the cell. Knowing someone was coming to check on him again, he leaned his back against the wall to avoid rousing their suspicion.
But when both Lewis and Abram entered the room, their motions purposeful, McGee sprang to his feet. The sight of the rolled piece of fabric tucked under Maxwell's arm made Tim's blood run cold. He guarded the entrance to his cell, glancing nervously between the two men.
"Get away from the door," Abram ordered, pulling his gun out.
"Look, you don't have to do this." Tim's pulse thudded in his ears.
"Back it up," Lewis barked, narrowing his eyes when Tim didn't.
Maxwell's hand connected with the chain-link door. The strike surprised Tim, sending him stumbling a few steps away. By the time he recovered, the door to his cell opened. Lewis dropped the piece of fabric to the floor and McGee pressed his lips together, studying the dirt on the top of his shoes.
Just what was he supposed to do? Weaponless and hands bound, he was certainly no match for Abram or Lewis, let alone both of them. Anyone else on the team could take them down right now, bound or unbound. Not that any of them would be in this mess to begin with.
There was no way in hell that Gibbs would be here. Tony could've talked himself out of the standoff back at the storage unit, recovered the mission and be stealing everyone's celebratory takeout by now. And Ziva? Well, she could kill anyone before they even thought to question her identity.
Tim was the only one who would end up like this.
Even though they were going to kill him, he still wouldn't go down without a fight.
He just needed an opportunity.
He just needed an opportunity to make his team proud.
McGee swallowed hard.
"You don't - ," Tim tried again, wondering exactly how his shoes managed to get so dirty.
"Shut up already," Abram growled, dropping the bucket he carried. He reached into it and set a few bottles of water on the floor.
Perplexed, Tim raised his eyebrow at Lewis rolling out a sleeping bag. McGee ultimately decided not to question the kindness, lest he convince them to change their mind. When Lewis finished, he rose and approached McGee. Without any space to move away, Tim felt Maxwell grab his shoulder and pull a knife out of the sheath on his hip.
Tim hiccupped, trying to swallow the bile.
So much for the sleepover, looked like they - .
"Nothing stupid, got it?"
Wide eyes fixated on the ugly blade, the agent nodded mutely before Lewis cut the bindings on his wrists. Maxwell pulled Tim's hands in front of him, holding his wrists tightly together while Abram roughly zip-tied them together. The pins and needles of sensation had just started to prick their way back to his fingertips, gone with the last click of the zip-tie. Tim tried to get it back, flexing his fingers as the pair slid out of his cell. While McGee finally plucked the recording glasses off his face, Lewis and Abram locked his cell, slamming the door as they left.
Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Last time he wore those on an undercover mission.
Scratch that, last time he ever went undercover.
Grabbing one of the water bottles, McGee scrambled back to his escape route with a new found urgency. As soon as he relocated the next wire in his line to freedom, the room fell dark again.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
8:31pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Arms crossed, Jethro Gibbs glared angrily at the images plastered on the plasma. In the center of the screen, a map of the greater tri-state area covered by an ever-enlarging red circle with its epicenter at the storage unit. Stuck in the bottom corner of the screen, Tim McGee's stock NCIS photo watched him think. Against his better judgment, Gibbs let his eyes linger on the image of his youngest agent. Baby-faced and kind-eyed, McGee certainly didn't resemble a typical field agent. The team leader often had a hard time looking past Tim's youthful appearance, allowing himself to assign more dangerous missions to Tony and Ziva by default. Perhaps it was Gibbs' unconscious way of protecting McGee from harm, someone else's child that he still looked every bit of.
Figures the one time he actually lets the junior agent take on something dangerous…
It was supposed to be easy. Get in, get confessions and information, get out and join the team for the arrest. Even when the recording equipment went dark, he still gave Tim ten minutes to complete the mission because without confessions, they had nothing. But in eight minutes the group had managed to escape, his agent taken hostage.
He hadn't been there, just like he'd promised each and every agent that ever joined his team.
The frantic clicks of three sets of keyboards echoed through the office and Gibbs shook his head at the photo's blank state, an apology on deaf ears. The circle on the map grew larger, stretching deeper into Virginia and Maryland.
Rubbing his hand over his face, Gibbs knew his youngest agent could be anywhere.
But to watch the miles accumulate in real time.
"Somebody tell me something!"
"Boss, Metro ran down a few leads off the BOLO," Tony DiNozzo sighed, keeping his eyes on his computer. "Nothing connected to Lewis, Abram or our mystery man. Suzuki and Barrows are running point on their side of the investigation. But we finally did get the sketch back from Harrison about the guy who offered to place a bomb for PEBY."
With a few mouse clicks, a thin-faced man with expertly styled hair appeared over the map.
"Look familiar?"
"That is Fox's roommate, Andrew Newman," Ziva nodded, leaning forward on her desk.
"And the award goes to - ," DiNozzo started until he noticed Gibbs' glare. "I'll keep looking, boss."
Ignoring McGee's picture, Gibbs stared at the sketch of Newman against his DMV photo and pulled a swig of his coffee. Even though the specifics of their case were coming together neatly, he just couldn't quash that itch in his gut. Knowing Tim's abduction was partially responsible, there was still something else that just didn't feel right.
There was something that they were missing.
"Zavoral?"
"I'm still trying to get into the database, sir," Regina Zavoral remarked quietly, sinking lower in her chair. "It's a higher encryption level than I'm familiar with."
"Ziva?"
"I have uncovered information on Abram," Ziva David said, retrieving the remote off her desk and bringing up a DMV picture of Abram. "James Abram, 41, no wife, no children, both parents deceased. Failed out of Syracuse in 1986 after attempting a degree in chemistry. He has worked minimum wage jobs since then. Most recently, he worked at a local McDonald's until one month ago. His former employer stated that Abram quit and left no forwarding address for his last paycheck. His last known address is a condemned building."
Unsure how Abram fit into the bomb plan with Lewis and Newman, Gibbs listened to the agents working quickly in the bullpen. While Lewis was a loose cannon, bred to disrespect authority and angry with the Navy for an earned discharge and Newman was a young man, bored with the status quo and money to burn, Gibbs couldn't see how Abram rounded out the trio.
Not to mention their mystery man.
Beneath the suspect's picture, the red circle grew again. He exhaled slowly.
"Boss," DiNozzo relayed, transferring a picture of a young woman to the plasma, "Abram has no connections to Put Earth Before Yourself, but his wife does. Well, she did. Holly Abram died in 1995 during a protest against a whaling fleet. The boat capsized, taking five people with it. Coast Guard never recovered the body."
"If his wife did not believe in whaling, why would Abram wish to attack the Navy?" Ziva asked, sounding confused.
"It's not about attacking the Navy," Zavoral interjected, "it's about protecting the whales."
"Her mission becomes his," DiNozzo agreed.
"You find that guy yet, Zavoral?" Gibbs growled, watching Regina's features tense.
"Not yet, sir. Still working," she sighed, turning back to the computer.
"So where'd the money come from?" DiNozzo asked.
"What money?"
"The money that Abram deposited into Newman's account for The Sun Ray Foundation. He works in fast food, right? There's no way he made enough that he could bankroll this operation alone."
Pressing his lips together, Gibbs mulled over his senior agent's question. When they had originally accessed The Sun Ray Foundation's bank account, he'd been so preoccupied with figuring out the destination of the money that he forgot about its origin before Abram.
Everything has a start and an end.
He slammed his hand against the back of his head, ignoring the quiet that fell over the bullpen.
"Did he - ?" Regina started, glancing over at Tony.
Without pulling his eyes off his computer, the senior agent shook his head.
"Zavoral, find out where the money started," Gibbs ordered, swiveling to meet her widened, light eyes.
"I'll need a few minutes. It's easier to follow a trail than - ."
"You've got one."
She gasped quietly, staring at Gibbs in disbelief until he checked his watch. Making a face, she frantically pulled Abram's bank account information. With several more clicks of her mouse, she put an active search on the screen. The trio watched her work in silence as the money flashed through several accounts all over the world.
Eventually, an account number popped up on the plasma. A few clicks later and a picture of an attractive, middle aged blonde appeared.
"It's a personal checking account belonging to Sunshine Harrison," Zavoral reported, grimacing when she checked her time.
"Boss?" Tony stood, already reaching for his Sig.
"Yeah, DiNozzo and Ziva go talk to Harrison again. Zavoral, find out who that guy is," Gibbs barked, narrowing his eyes at the plasma. As the two agents hustled out the bullpen, the team leader stared blankly at McGee's picture.
Just where the hell was Tim?
Almost sensing his frustration, the red circle enlarged, finally touching the southernmost part of Pennsylvania. The clicks of Zavoral's labors sounded as hollow as he felt.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure pass Tony's desk on its way into the bullpen. Wondering if DiNozzo needed more clarification for his order, Gibbs ground his teeth and turned, ready to make his senior agent wish he'd never returned. When he saw a fair-faced, grey-haired woman in Tony's place, Gibbs narrowed his eyes at her. Under any other circumstance, her long legs and attractive smile would have earned more help than he felt like providing at the moment.
"Whaddya want?"
"Sorry to intrude," the woman said, raising her eyebrows at Zavoral's earnest activity, "but maybe you can help me?"
"With what?" he sneered, glaring as her smile broadened.
"I'm Candice Delancey, Homeland Security. The deputy director asked me to speak to Director Shepard. Do you know where could I find her?"
Zavoral slid silently out of her chair, vanishing under McGee's desk.