Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Warning : Moderate amounts of violence.
Author's Note : Thanks to everyone who's read, favorited and followed so far. Many, many thanks to all of you who left reviews.
I managed to get a few minutes today to post this one. Hope you guys enjoy it.
Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the US. If you're not, have a nice Thursday!
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8:11pm - 2867 Rickert St – Cherry Hill Neighborhood, Baltimore, MD –
With minutes passing like hours, Tony doesn't know how long the five of them wait in the back office. He keeps his attention divided on the three thugs scattered around the room. Even though he can feel Tim's anxious gaze, Tony can't bring himself to look at the younger man again.
All he needs to do is hold out until Gibbs arrives.
Pressing his lips together, Tony glances towards Alej. Oblivious to the world, the thug plays a game on his cell phone. Several feet away, Hector and Chale share a muted conversation, lingering dangerously close to Tim. No matter how hard he strains his ears, Tony only picks out the occasional Spanish word. For all he can tell, they might be talking about food.
When a ringing breaks the tense silence, Tony swings his gun towards Alej. Still engrossed in his game, he pumps his fist and grins broadly. Tony lets out a quiet puff of relief, weapon falling limply to his side.
"Whoa man, why you wiggin' out? Ain't nothin' goin' on," Hector calls.
"Didn't expect that freakin' game to be so loud." Tony laughs, collapsing back into his seat.
Alej shoots them a sheepish grin, then he mutes his phone. The clicking of the keypad begins to grate Tony's nerves. Hector continues to stare intently at him, and it only takes a few seconds before the feeling makes his skin crawl.
He narrows his eyes.
"What?"
"Think we should get the fed ready for Carreras?" Hector suggests, jerking his head towards Tim.
"I'm not big on kickin' the shit out of a guy who can't fight back. Where's the fun in that?" Tony cracks a tight grin.
"Well, then we'll get him loosened up."
"Let Rico handle it himself," Tony orders, meeting Tim's terrified stare.
Tony holds his breath for several beats until Chale hauls Tim roughly to his feet anyway. Tony slams his Glock against Alej's head and the thug hits the ground, cell phone shattering next to him.
"Now, McGee!"
Tim lashes out with the knife, plunging it into Chale's stomach. With a gut wrenching shriek, the thug crumples to the floor. When Tim turns to attack Hector, a punch to the gut drops him to his knees. The knife skitters away.
The glint of the gun in Hector's hand makes Tony bark, "Federal agent, drop the gun!"
Just as Hector's weapon drifts toward Tim's head, Tony pulls the Glock's trigger. Hector jerks backwards, slamming into the wall, a blood trail following him to the floor. Eyes wide with surprise, the thug watches Tim climb to his feet and pick the gun off the ground. Hector's lips move, but he can only let out a low moan. His eyelids sag as he begins to lose consciousness.
With his commandeered gun trained on Hector, Tim joins Tony by the door so they can wait for Gibbs.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I just... I can't... oh G-d... " He shudders, surveying the scene. "Are you okay?"
Unable to stand the way his friend holds his right arm to his chest, Tony's eyes dart back to Hector.
"I'm fine."
Tony and Tim share an uneasy silence, watching Chale and Hector slowly bleed to death.
Suddenly, Tim lets out a loud yelp and his gun hits the ground with a metallic clink.
"You sure you're alright, Probie?"
"Probie? That's cute." The sound of Carreras' voice turns Tony's blood to ice.
Fighting the dread that builds in his throat, he turns to find Carreras in the doorway, arm snaked around Tim's neck and a gun against his temple. Tony automatically aims his weapon at Carreras' head. Pulse pounding in his ears, Tony meets the drug dealer's murderous glare.
"Federal agent. Drop the gun," he orders.
"You FBI?"
When Tony doesn't respond, Carreras' grip tightens enough to make Tim's strident inhalations vanish. Tim's left hand lands on the forearm around his neck as he struggles to regain his airway.
Tony inhales slowly, forcing himself not to squeeze the trigger.
I might hit McGee…
Face bright red with effort, Tim's eyelids begin to droop. When his stance slips, Carreras releases the choke-hold just enough to let the junior agent suck in a deep breath.
"Are you FBI?" Carreras repeats, jerking his arm against Tim's neck again.
"NCIS," Tony growls.
"Same as this guy?"
"Yeah, same as that guy." His hand tightens on the grip, fighting the slick of sweat blossoming from his palm.
"What's your name, fed?"
"Why? You wanna remember the guy who took you outta the game?"
"The one who tried," Carreras corrects, digging his gun deeper into Tim's temple.
Tony fakes a laugh, grimacing as he adjusts his aim slightly. Even though he practices religiously, he still tends to drift slightly right to…exactly where Tim's head is. He presses his lips together, cringing at the way his friend slouches in Carreras' hold. When the grasp on his neck loosens, Tim inhales heavily.
"Drop the weapon, Rico. I won't ask you again."
"You drop yours or I'll kill him."
Tim's flushed features pale suddenly. Not meeting his friend's wide eyes, Tony sets his sight on Carreras forehead. Just as he's about to pull the trigger, Tim bucks backwards, knocking Carreras and himself off balance. Tony whips his gun towards the tussle, unable to get a clear shot. A weapon pops out from the fight and Tim follows it to the ground, landing hard on his stomach. When Carreras tries to pull him away, Tim kicks him in the face while swinging the gun around in one fluid motion.
Panting, Tim keeps the gun trained on Carreras as Tony rushes forward to arrest him. When he hears the last click of the handcuffs, Tim relaxes against the floor with a long exhale. Tony stands over him, grinning broadly as he studies the younger man.
I'm not sure I'd have the balls for that.
"Good work, Probster," Tony says, helping Tim to his feet. "Just don't ever do that again."
"Thanks, Tony." He forces a brave smile.
"You're welcome." He shrugs, shifting his body so Tim doesn't see the shake in his hands. Touching one to the back of his head, Tony laughs quietly as he closes his eyes.
The door suddenly flies open, slamming into the moldy drywall.
Police pour into the room, their guns at the ready.
"Baltimore PD! Get your hands up!" one of them yells.
Dropping his weapon, Tony raises his hands and Tim copies the action with a grimace.
"We're federal agents," he announces, trying not to look at the guns in his face.
When Gibbs and Ziva bring up the rear, he points at Tony and Tim. "Those two are mine."
The weapons move away, and Tony lets out a loud sigh of relief. Dropping into a chair, Tim leans forward, perspiration beading on his forehead. While the police and paramedics busy themselves with the cartel members, Tony watches his boss carefully study them both. The glare softens when he notices the bruising that continues to darken across Tim's cheek.
"You two okay?" Gibbs asks.
"Fine," Tony says, crossing his arms.
"Yeah, fine," Tim echoes, eyes dropping to the floor as Gibbs crouches in front of him. When his boss touches his right shoulder, his face twists in anguish.
"You're not fine, Tim." He shakes his head. "Ziver, make sure he gets to the hospital. I'll be by later to check on you both."
"Yes, Gibbs," Ziva replies, easing Tim up.
While his partners head out of the room, paramedics and police push their way past Tony to transport the patient-prisoners to the hospital. Watching an officer recite Carreras his Miranda rights makes Tony smirk. A solid rap to the back of his head knocks it away.
"Boss?"
"That's for not calling me sooner." Gibbs squeezes Tony's shoulder tightly. "But you did good protecting McGee and keeping the case going. That's exactly what I expect of you."
His grin returns. "Thanks, boss."
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
9:39pm - 2867 Rickert St – Cherry Hill Neighborhood, Baltimore, MD –
Back against the rough brick wall, Tony watches the red and blue whirls of the Metro cruiser's siren blend together with the sulfuric street lamps' glow into a frenzied pinwheel. He can barely make out the forms of the police officers that wait inside the vehicle. Not quite brave enough to face the misting rain, they work on something, their twin cell phone screens burning in the darkness.
Tony lets out a sigh, hugging his arms to his chest as he listens to the steady drum on the overhang. Even though Fornell and Gibbs requested that he walk them through the evening again, he just can't bring himself to step back inside. The scene itself should be straightforward enough for them to figure out on their own : three semi-conscious and wounded thugs, an injured federal agent, and Enrico Carreras finally under arrest.
But that's only the part he saw. From what he overheard, the cops found a body upstairs, tied to a chair and riddled with bullet holes.
That could've been me and Tim.
The door swings open, nearly hitting Tony. Both Fornell and Gibbs appear, heavily in debate. When they notice him, they grow silent.
"Didn't see you there, DiNozzo," Fornell says.
"Guess I just needed some air," he admits, turning his attention back to the parking.
"Yeah, don't blame you. Sounds like you had a busy day."
Tony smiles tightly, watching the occupied cop car pull into a K-turn before it flies out of the parking lot. The sirens scream as it rushes away, the city swallowing its lights, leaving only the yellowed halos of the streetlamps to shimmer in the rain. When he realizes they still have to deal with the matter that brought Tim here, Tony runs his hand over his face.
Getting arrested would make for a spectacular end to a wonderful day.
"How's McGee, boss?" he asks instead.
"Fine. Ziva said they're still waiting for the doctor. Must be a busy night."
"Always is on Friday." Tony sighs quietly, gaze jumping between the two men.
Gibbs' phone rings. He turns his collar up as he goes to take the call. Even though Tony strains his ears, he can't make out any conversation. He turns his attention to Fornell instead.
"Do you really think I killed that guy?"
"Let's just wait for a second," Fornell offers, waiting until Gibbs rushes back under the overhang.
"Looks like you were right, Tobias." Gibbs shakes off his phone, flicking water onto the ground.
"Did you expect anything else?" He laughs heartily. "What'd Abby have to say?"
"She pulled a print off the gun that matches four others. Says she still hasn't gotten an ID yet, but one of the unidentified bodies might be Colvin's stepson."
Fornell grins. "Looks like you might just be off the hook, DiNozzo. But I do have to seize that jacket for evidence, just in case. Colvin'll nail my ass to the wall if I don't."
Nodding silently, Tony shrugs it off. His fingers linger on the supple leather until Fornell pulls it from his grasp. A blast of wind suddenly hits them and Tony shudders, trying to chase the bite away.
Anthony Masterson is finally gone.
"When are we doing the debrief?" Tony asks quietly.
Fornell's face screws in thought, looking to Gibbs who shakes his head slowly.
"Not tonight. Get some sleep. We'll catch up tomorrow. I think I've got my hands full with Carreras."
"Thanks."
Fornell nods, then vanishes back into the building.
The door slams, leaving Tony to debate about what he should say to his boss. Before he can formulate a coherent sentence, Gibbs waves over his shoulder, drawing them both out into the rain. Even though he covers his head with his hands, Tony ends up drenched by the time he squelches into the passenger seat of the Charger. With the water soaking through his shirt, he shivers violently and Gibbs flicks on the heat. He slumps back, ready to slide into oblivion when a jingle catches his attention. Pulling out his cell phone, Gibbs makes a face at the screen.
"Damn thing makes noise when no one calls," he growls, chucking it into the cup holder.
Tony retrieves it, flipping it open to find the text message indicator flashing.
"You just got a text from McGee, boss. I guess he got his hands on Ziva's phone," he replies, shocked to find a few dozen unread messages from Abby and Tim that are several months old in the inbox. Opening his teammate's newest message, he reads it aloud. "'Still waiting to see the doctor, running a couple tests now so that'll keep me busy. Think I'm in for a long night.'"
While Gibbs lets out a long sigh, Tony sags back against the seat again and scrolls through the other text messages. With all the shorthand and emoticons, he doubts that his boss would be able to translate them…if he even knew how to check them.
The fog from the heater creeps over the windshield and Gibbs growls, reaching after the climate controls. The defrosters kicks on, making the engine jump.
"What the hell happened?" Gibbs finally asks.
Tony closes the phone, instantly comforted by the darkness. Swallowing hard, he stares at the outlines of buildings that loom outside the car.
"It'll take a while," he replies flatly, feeling Gibbs throw the car in gear.
The headlights blaze in the near dark, illuminating the broken macadam and dormant police cars. As the car bounces out of the parking lot, Tony watches the world pass him by. The Charger traces its way through the dilapidated neighborhood, taking careful turns until it hits a main thoroughfare. The rundown buildings outside begin to turn into occupied storefronts, their lights leading the way back to civilization. Tony stares at his hands in his lap until the vehicle stops abruptly.
Just outside the window, a small bar lies nestled between an all-night grocer and a video rental store. Tony truly doubts Gibbs has a hankering for a pizza or wants to rent The Godfather.
"Boss?"
Gibbs kills the engine, waving his hand to draw Tony back into the rain. By the time they slide into the bar, his t-shirt's completely soaked. The wall of smoke hits him before the heat that's being pumped through the building's radiators. It only takes a few seconds for the sweat to prick onto his brow.
Heading silently to the long, dark-wood bar, Gibbs ignores the other patrons. He places an order with a bespectacled bartender. Tony glances around the local watering hole, noticing the solitary, grey-haired men scattered around the haphazard tables. Part of him wonders whether Gibbs feels the camaraderie here. In a far corner, the rebroadcast of a football game plays out while the commentator babbles quietly.
He blinks to find Gibbs by his side, holding a matching pair of tumblers half-full with amber liquid. With a head jerk, Gibbs leads the way to an isolated table. Tony slides into the seat, gladly accepting the proffered beverage. When he takes a swig, the taste of liquid smoke and honey assaults his tongue. He coughs violently, barely able to bite back a curse.
"Boss, what the hell is this?"
"Bourbon. Don't ask…just drink it." Begrudgingly following the order, Tony swallows the drink in one gulp. Across the table, Gibbs looks amused as he works on his own glass. "Guess it's an acquired taste."
"I'm more of a gin man," Tony admits, slipping his fingers over the tumbler.
Gibbs' features pinch in disgust. Before Tony can explain the intricacies of the superior juniper-flavored gin, the bourbon hits his bloodstream, making his brain swim. Tony slumps back in the chair, finally feeling completely relaxed for the first time since the mission began.
Concern washes over Gibbs' face. "What happened, Tony?"
"I don't know, Boss. It's been such a blur. The mission was going great, until I saw - " his breath hitches, "- those girls. They're just kids, for G-d's sake." Tony stares morosely at the last drops in his tumbler. "Are the girls okay?"
Even though Gibbs already told him they're fine, Tony just needs to hear it again.
"Yeah, they're all at the hospital. Tell me what happened with McGee. I know he came because of Morales."
Tony pulls in a deep breath, then releases it in a loud huff.
"He just showed up today at a meeting I had with Carreras. When I saw him, I didn't know what to do. It was either blow my cover and get him out of there or convince Carreras to bring him along until I could contact you. I'd've blown my cover, but I hadn't convinced Schaller" - Gibbs' eyes narrow slightly - " to move in yet and…" Tony flattens his hands against the sticky tabletop. "Christ, I almost got McGee killed."
"He'll be fine and so will those girls. Might not feel like it, but you did good."
When Tony stares sullenly at him, Gibbs slides over the half full tumbler.
"What about Schaller?"
Tony shrugs, brow furrowed. "I didn't miss my meetings with him, Boss. Made every single one. I gave him everything. Names, dates, times, locations. Everything he needed for an iron-clad case against Carreras. But he kept saying that he needed more."
Following Gibbs' gaze back to the bar, Tony watches a woman blatantly solicit a man who looks old enough to be her grandfather. He dredges the last drops from the tumbler, flinching at the smoky taste. When his stomach still burns, he isn't sure whether it's the bourbon or a sympathetic twinge of the fabled Gibbs' gut.
"You know, when I told him those girls are someone's daughters, he flipped out. And thinking about it now, I really wonder whether Schaller is - "
"One of Carreras' clients."