I'm starting to prepare for my medical licensure exams; hence, my sporadic updates. Well, that plus a cringe worthy schedule. Ugh. (I know, excuses... excuses...)

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own NCIS.

With a bottle of pills in hand, McGee held his breath and carefully exited the pharmacy. For the second time that day, his hand lingered on his gun holster, ready to shoot if necessary. He's starting to sense a pattern here. A very disturbing pattern.

Though his earlier paranoia has already been validated, he still hoped that it would not lead to an impromptu gunfight in a middle of the street. He was actually not in a particular mood to shoot anyone, let alone get himself shot.

Where could that guy possibly go now? And why on earth was he following him around?

McGee's questions were immediately answered when he spotted the guy in question right across the street. His back was against him.

McGee drew closer, as stealthy as possible.

"I'm out, dude." Tim heard him say. The guy was on his phone, obviously in a heated argument against whoever it was at the other end of the line. He went on, "I don't wanna get shot. You never told me this guy's packing!"

McGee's wheels started turning. Is he talking about him?

He must be.

Well it's either him or the elderly man inside the store who seemed precariously close to kicking the metaphorical bucket. And something tells him that the old guy is not much of a gun aficionado. Even if his life depended on it, he probably wouldn't be able to lift a gun, much less point and shoot it at someone.

"Don't you fucking dare remind me of that one time. I know I owe you." The man replied, slighted. "I followed him all the way here like you asked me to. But, man, I'm not willing to die for it."

He listened to his phone for a while. If the way he shook his head was any indication, it is clear he did not like what he's hearing.

"Didn't you hear me?" He argued on, "No, I'm out! Good luck with your mysterious ladylove. But on your own in this one." And he ended his call.

When he turned, he ended up face to face with McGee. The NCIS agent couldn't tell who was more surprised of that development, but he did not actually get the time to ponder because the next thing he knew, the guy was reaching into his pocket.

Instinctively, McGee drew his weapon and identified himself, "NCIS! Hands out, slowly."

The man froze in surprise, dropping the phone from his other hand. When he showed no indication of moving, McGee raised his gun a little higher, aiming on his face. "Do it now!"

Panicked, the man quickly obliged. "It's a toy! It's a toy!" He screamed, scared shitless, hands raised in surrender. He even kneels on the ground without being asked. His features turned a shade paler. "Oh god, please don't shoot!"

On his hand was indeed one of those toy guns you can buy at any souvenir shot. The one that fires an American flag when the trigger is pulled. He drops it unceremoniously to the ground.

"Who are you?" McGee asked in his most agent-cy voice. "Why are you following me?"

"Pe—Peter. Warwick. Peter Warwick." He stammered. He cannot take his eyes away from the huge shiny barrel pointed at him. "I'm sorry. Please don't shoot! Please!"

McGee didn't lower his gun just yet. "Why are you following me?"

"It's a favour for a friend." He anxiously replied. "Please, I'm not a bad person."

"Who's your friend? Give me a name." McGee ordered. Good thing he always kept his handcuff handy. He pulled the guy out of his current slump and secured his hand on a nearby metal bench.

"Reggie. He didn't tell me much. Ow!" He cried when the cuffs tightened behind him. He has never been arrested before. And before that day, his memories involving cuffs had all been relatively pleasant. "All I know is that there is this other lady he wants out of his way. The one with the huge metal things going on, you know?"

Huge metal things? Wait, isn't that— "What do you mean out of his way?"

"How the hell would I know?" He said. "I was just told to do this one thing then bugger off."

McGee's gut told him that he still has something to tell. He pressed on, "I heard our holding cells this week are pretty crowded. Adding you in would definitely piss certain people off. Believe me, you wouldn't want them pissed off."

"Woah. Woah." Peter's eyes widened, backing up a step. "You are not seriously booking me."

"You were seriously following me back there." McGee countered. "Give me something."

"I don't have anything to tell you!" He insisted, stomping his feet. "Reggie may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I've known him for years. He is a good guy!"

"Someone who makes his friends follow armed federal agents around does not sound that much of a model citizen, Peter." McGee said. "I'm taking you in."

"Sweeto!" Peter half yells as he remembered something his friend might have told him in passing. "Abby Sweeto or something…"

Blood seemed to have drained off McGee's face when he realized the levity of the information Peter just told him. "You mean Scuito?"

"Yes, yes, that's it!" He nodded repeatedly; glad to have anything helpful to tell his potential arresting officer to get him off his back. That's something already, isn't it? "That's it! That's the name he told me. Reggie said he would be taking care of her first before anything else."

"Take care how?" McGee continued questioning Peter as he was typing Abby's digits on his phone. To his dismay, only the former was giving him any sort of answer. The latter just kept on sending him to voicemail.

"That's all I've got, I swear!" Peter said. "I know nothing else! Even if you throw me into a cell with a dozen overly angry, overly smelly dudes, there's nothing left for me to tell."

The agent barely noticed that he was pacing as his fourth call again sent him to voicemail. Shit shit shit. "Answer the phone, Abby. Damn it!"

"Who are you calling?" Curious Peter asked.

"Shut up, you!"

Taking one calming breath, he dialled Tony's phone. He's with her, right? Abby is with Tony and Ziva. She should be perfectly safe. Maybe she's busy playing Diablo on his computer that's why she missed his call.

The senior agent answered on the third ring. "Hey McGee, what up?" Tony asked him in a fake cheerful voice. Even from across the line, McGee could tell that he's not having much of a good day either.

"Is Abby with you?" The probie asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Tony took the liberty to scan the living room once more, just to be sure. Nope, she wasn't there. "Um, no."

"Did she tell you where she was going?" The slight urgency in McGee's tone did not go amiss, despite Tony's half brain-dead, one arm-dead state.

"Why?" Tony asked, sitting up straighter. "What's going on?"

"I don't have time to explain, just…" McGee stammered. His gut was in tight coils. "I'll call Gibbs, okay? I think something bad happened to Abby." He hung up, then immediately dialled his boss' phone.

"What is it McGee?" The situation must be really bad if Gibbs' gruff voice made him feel a little better instead of making him wish that there is some nearby hill where he could run to and hide.

"Boss," McGee began, jaw tensing at the sight of the man he just arrested, "I think we have a problem."