Author's Note:

As promised, readers, you have your next chapter. I adore you all – please enjoy and tell me what you think. I've missed you, believe me.

(P.S. – I know nothing about security systems or technology. I've made all this up so please forgive me if it's totally implausible. I also have no beta – the lovely Mina is in law school now and has no time for editing – so any and all errors are mine.)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Preparations

"If this man has one more bloody cup of coffee I'll bludgeon him to death myself," Martin grumbles and I chuckle.

"You can take comfort in the fact that caffeine increases risk of breast cancer," I reply and he snorts. I can almost see Ziva rolling her eyes a few hundred feet from here, with our voices in her ear. Martin laughs some more and then hiccups like he does when he's drunk.

"You're right. That is a comfort."

Eli David has left the Mossad compound five times this morning, searching for his straight black, three-sugar coffee from a little kiosk near the entrance of the building. After the third time, we stopped even tracking his movements. Martin and I are on top of a restaurant roof a block away with high-powered binoculars, sweating and obsessing over sunburns. Ziva is perched precariously closer, just outside the walls of the compound. She sits across the street, covered in grimy clothing and dirt, passing as a beggar. Her face is covered and her voice is masked. It's only been a few months, and these people don't forget things easily. When it comes to our identities we're not willing to take any chances.

"How many security people have you counted?" I ask Martin since he has the binoculars. "Twenty? Thirty?"

"Not even," he replies off-handedly. "More like two. The same two, even. I think he has the balls to assume no one can reach him while he's here."

"Didn't we decide that?"

"Well, we're supposed to think it," he replies. "It's presumptuous if he does."

"I think you are forgetting that my father was once a Mossad agent himself," Ziva says, her voice muffled by the clothing covering her microphone. "He is more than capable of caring for himself. The bodyguards you are watching are only a precaution, in case he is caught off-guard."

"Like in the case of…"

"Infiltration of the building, ambush," she replies. "Snipers."

"So these guys are being paid to die for him?" I ask.

"Potentially, yes," Ziva says. "It is part of their job description. They are well aware of the risk, and if it makes you feel better, they are paid very well to do so."

"I don't think I've ever been that desperate for money," Martin adds under his breath.

"He typically has many more, though," she observes skeptically. "I wonder if my time away has made him overly confident in his invincibility. Especially if no one dares challenge him."

"Let's hope," Martin adds, "Because if he has fifty invisible guys waiting for him at home, we're not going to live to see morning."

"My father has always been paranoid, there is little doubt of that," she tells us, "But he is secretive about it because he does not want to seem weak. A man who has fifty bodyguards in his employ seems fearful, vulnerable. His image is everything to him, so he may not be willing to pacify his paranoia to the extent he normally would."

"I think that sounds like good news," I say hopefully. "Does that sound like good news to you?"

"It surely does," Martin says, not looking away from David's office building. "It's the closest we're getting to it, anyway."

"So, what's the plan?" I ask, "With or without the good news."

"We figure out who to expect first," he replies. "If we're lucky it'll stay with just the two guards he has now. Getting to his home without alerting him will be the hardest part, though. According to the map Ziva drew us he's fairly secluded, almost certainly for that reason." Ziva whispers her agreement in our ears. "But your pal Liraz has arranged for there to be a security 'hiccup' for a few minutes, just enough time for us to get into position without any kind of alarm going off."

"Hiccups are good," I reply.

"Let's hope so," he says skeptically.

I continue my well-rehearsed part. "Right about that time, I'm going to show up on Daddy David's door, promising to give up Ziva so I can go back to the States. If everything else fails, it'll at least give you the window to get into position before the security systems come back online."

"Ziva and I will scale the back wall of the premises, waiting for your go-ahead to jump to the roof. I'll stay there to act as a look-out and Ziva will cross the distance to the balcony outside his study, where she'll sneak in and go from there," Martin says in a voice that seems surprisingly optimistic. When I ask him about it, all he has to say is, "I've had worse odds. Much worse."

"I think we all have," Ziva says in a knowing voice, "But not much worse."

Martin grunts his agreement and then all is silent.

"Thanks for the cheer, guys," I say sarcastically and look up at the unbearably bright desert sun. All that's left to do now is sit and wait and watch David get eight hundred cups of coffee. I'll be lucky if I'm still sane by the time it's time for us to move out.


Darkness falls quickly, giving us a slight reprieve from the sweltering heat. Not long after we detect signs of movement in my father's office. It is odd to watch his tired shuffle from the Mossad doors to his car, lugging his black leather briefcase. He looks old, I think as I watch him slide into the back seat. It is strange to see him this way; he usually appears cocky, self-assured. He believes he is invincible. Now, the same man's arrogant swagger is hardly recognizable. I am sure he would have something very similar to stay about me should someone have the nerve to ask him.

Following him out of Tel Aviv proves to be the longest portion of our day, as we have to time our journey in such a way that he does not suspect he is being followed. He is unescorted this time, with the exception of his driver. Other security will be waiting for him once he reaches his house. My father lives in a very wealthy suburb of Tel Aviv reserved for diplomats and other high-ranking government officials. Although, truthfully, it is much less like a suburb than it is like a sprawling country club. The homes are far enough apart to offer seclusion but close enough to offer strength in numbers. His neighbors will certainly see if his house catches fire, but they will not see me climbing up the side and sneaking in a window. That simple fact is possibly the only thing we have going for us.

His car disappears behind the wrought-iron gate and we have only moments to scale the stone wall that borders his property. Tony stays behind, waiting until we are in place before he strolls up to the door. The wall is only a little less than seven feet tall but Martin and I both feel the strain as we pull ourselves up to the top. The long cut on my arm from Omari's shard of glass burns like fire but fortunately I do not feel the makeshift stitches tear. It has been quite some time since we had to do anything like this; longer for Martin, certainly, than for me. I tried to keep myself in fighting shape but things come up and it becomes easy to make excuses. The most I have accomplished in three months was lifting a particularly heavy box of inventory at the bookstore.

Martin grins when he hears his knees pop repeatedly.

"Makes me sound old, doesn't it?"

My elbow pops loudly in reply.

"I am not one to judge."

Once we are on top of the wall we keep crouched low and move along the sizeable perimeter of the house until we are facing the back of it, where three floors of terraces act as adornments for the already luxurious home. It was a foolish move by my father, I think; it leaves the back half of the house easily accessible. Not to the average person, perhaps, because of the twelve foot gap in between the stone wall and the second-floor terrace. For me, however? For me it is hardly more than a stretch. He should have been more careful.

Shaded in the branches of the large ficus benjamina tree my father so adores, Martin and I take a moment to pop in the ear pieces Liraz fashioned for us and dropped off earlier today. They slip into our ears easily and the first thing we hear is jarring white noise at an almost unbearable volume. The shock almost pushes my companion out of the tree entirely before he grabs a branch and holds tight. He blinks a few times once it is over and curses under his breath before muttering, "I'd forgotten how much I despise those blasted things."

I smile and listen patiently while the noise clears up and is replaced by rhythmic clicks. Another burst of static comes through and then it is a voice – a single, miraculous voice that almost has me in tears.

"Ziva?" McGee asks, his voice oddly clear over the thousands of miles between us.

"Tim," I whisper longingly. Has it been so long since I have heard McGee's voice?

"Guys, if you're talking I can't hear you. I'm just going to assume that Tony will keep talking anyway, just keep in mind that I'm not getting any of it," he quips and laughter bubbles up unwillingly in my chest. "If you'll give me a second or two I'll get your microphones up and working. They're not responding to my software upgrades."

"What in the hell is he saying?" Martin mouths to me and I shake my head.

"Got it!" he announces. "Try talking now."

Of course, Tony speaks up first. "Probie? Is that you?"

"Yeah, Tony, it's me," McGee replies, laughing, and I am suddenly hit with memories from another life. Abby's smile, McGee's enthusiastic laugh, and even the sound of Gibbs' palms on the backs of our heads. The feeling is almost euphoric. For the first time in months, with McGee's voice in my head, I am beginning to feel like it could be possible to go back to that life.

"Holy cow. You don't know how good it is to hear your voice, McGoo."

"Yeah," McGee replies. "You too. Is Ziva with us?"

"I am here, McGee," I whisper. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, you're coming in fine. Ask Martin to speak up for me."

"Bollocks."

McGee clears his throat and Martin laughs. "Yeah. I hear him fine."

"So what are we doing, Probie?" Tony asks, his voice muffled by distance. "Sadly, you're the brains for this suicide mission."

"It's not suicide, Tony," he admonishes but does not allow time for a rebuttal. "As it turns out, Deputy Director David has gotten lax in his home security since the two of you went on the run. He has one system that's controlled through two master panels. One is inside the house and the other is on the inside of the front gate for use by his security. Your friend said to expect two bodyguards at the house – one will be guarding the gate, he'll be the one to let Tony in, and another one will likely be wandering around the premises. Keep an eye out for that one."

"Copy that," Martin says gruffly.

"The driver's already gone," Tony adds. "He drove off a few minutes ago."

"Good. He'll have less of an escape route," Martin says.

"When Tony approaches the gate with his speech ready, the guard will have to disarm the entire system so the gate and the front door can open without all the bells and whistles going off. That's when I'm going to hack in and override the system, freezing the input so they'll think the system re-armed itself automatically without realizing that it never armed itself at all. So, as soon as Tony's in, that's when Ziva and Martin make their way into the house itself without worrying about the security system. From there, though, I'm not going to be much help. He has cameras around the house but all I'll be able to do is watch you. I'll warn you if someone's coming your way."

"I would consider that very useful, McGee," I assure him.

"So really, we're just waiting on Tony to make his appearance."

Tony chuckles but the sound lacks any humor. "I guess so. Ziva?"

"Yes?" I say, my chest constricting unpleasantly.

"Take care of yourself," he says, his voice soft, and then as an afterthought adds, "You too, Martin."

"Will do, Tony."

"Well," he sighs mournfully, "Here goes nothing."