Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1.

Author's notes:

- Naked!Tim but no graphic description, yu be warned ;o)

- In Greek mythology, Theseus is the founder-king of Athens and the slayer of the Minotaur, a half-man half-bull monster dwelling in the Cretian labyrinth.

- Details about the Modular Tactical Vest (MTV), Small Arms Protective Insert (SAPI) and Flame Resistant Organizational Gear (FROG) come from Wikipedia.

- To Guest, Readers4Feedback, Ollie260211, Earthdragon and None: thank you very much for your comments and suggestions!

- To From Russia with love: thank you!


Chapter 29: An aggression

A few days later, at ISAF...

It was the dead of the night, the base was calm but Sergeant Miller was feeling jubilant, just like the first time he had banged a girl without her consent.

He had been only a teenager then but the experience had been very satisfying – entrapping that ninny with a fake romantic rendezvous under the moonlight, screwing her on a bed of liquid manure and once the deed was done, reducing her to silence with the usual threat, "Shut up or I'll kill your folks before slitting your throat wide open." Miller's parents, a couple of goody-two-shoes farmers, had been unaware of their son's evil nature before it had been too late: the mysterious disappearance of neighbors' cats and dogs, children with bloodied noses, the theft of money from the church's collection box, vandalism at school... Never Mr. and Mrs. Miller had suspected a thing. After all, they were raising Kenneth in the respect of God's laws, hard work and honesty; how could they have imagined their son was a delinquent beneath his 'normal boy' facade? How could they have known their Kenny considered his parents as losers, detested farming and compensated his innate mediocrity with a penchant for destruction?

Until eighteen-year-old Kenny had made a mistake: he had attacked Anita Rodriguez, a farmhand's daughter. He had wrongly thought Anita would be an easy catch – her parents were flat-broke, more-or-less illegal immigrants with too many hungry mouths to feed; the threat of a phone call to the Migra would have done the trick in subduing Anita... But the girl had hit Kenny with a log before running to the police station. Miller had fled the scene and went home but he had quickly realized his 'normal boy' days were over; that suspicious Sheriff had been waiting for an occasion to put him inside and Anita would grant him a golden opportunity to do so. Miller had barely the time to pack up his things and take the first bus for the nearest Marines recruitment center, but not before slapping his own mother across the face, hard, for having tried to stop him from leaving the house.

Later, in the safety of the boot camp, Miller had learned Anita's testimony alone had not sufficed in pressing charges, but all Hell had broken loose nonetheless: after hearing about the attempted rape on the Rodriguez bitch, all of Miller's past victims had stepped up and denounced his wrongdoings. He had received an outraged phone call from his old man, stating they had been shamed in front of the whole community and his mother was having a nervous breakdown from the scandal Kenny had caused. Miller had retorted they both could go to Hell for all he cared, and then he had hung up. His parents had never tried to contact him again.

Miller had made his way in the Marines, but a few annoying incidents involving brutalized recruits had prevented him from reaching the upper ranks. Instead, he had gotten stuck in this dead-end job at Logistics Support, supervising crates and doing paperwork while running a little black market business on the sideline. His superiors were wary of him, soldiers hated him and he had only a handful of supporters on his side; not that Miller had a high consideration for his 'buddies' but at least they were useful to warn him in case someone was doing some poking around.

But tonight, Sergeant Miller was going to give himself the royal treatment… He was going to play with Stephenson's boy-toy!

It had taken him weeks to make plan but he had finally come up with a fail-proof one; for days, he had spied on Lieutenant McGee and it had turned out that, after faking to work all day on his computer or the Hummer, the fag would either sleep in his private quarters or go to Stephenson's office for late 'private meetings' – Ah! Some meetings! But something interesting had come up: McGee would often take a shower at night after his sessions with Stephenson, probably in the hopes to wash away the old bastard's sperm from his hot hole. And it suited Miller: the showers were deserted at night and McGee would be alone, the perfect conditions to strike.

"The boy-toy will sing higher than a soprano after I'm done with him," thought the maniacally-grinning Sergeant. "No doubts General Stephenson will cry his eyes out when he sees his lover torn to shreds at the hospital, making a perfect fool out of himself in front of the grunts. I really ought to bring a video camera to catch this moment and then post it anonymously over the Internet!"

The Sergeant quietly walked down the corridors; years in the Marines had taught him to move stealthily (very practical when ambushing snot-nosed rookies) and to protect himself from eventual wounds. Not that Miller feared McGee would fight back – he was persuaded homosexuals always stayed paralyzed in fear during attacks – but the fag could scratch him like a vicious animal and the Sergeant's natural-born cowardice had prompted him to be prepared: he had broken down an MTV vest and taken out the Small Arms Protective Insert plates to wear them beneath his T-shirt to protect his front and back. He had also found a pair of thick gloves (no fingerprints allowed) and a sand-colored balaclava from a Flame Resistant Organizational Gear to wear on his face (no chance of being recognized by his future victim). A complete MTV vest would have been safer but it was too heavy for ambushing a man inside a base and a busybody could wonder why Sergeant Miller was dressed in combat gear in the quiet ISAF.

"Ooh, I'm so going to mess up with your toy, Stephenson!"

Miller had reached the sub-level where the open showers were. He made sure his combat knife was secured to his belt before entering the darkened rooms covered with white ceramic tiles, with that constant mixed smell of soap and disinfectant lingering in the air. The sound of splashing water confirmed his suspicions: someone was indulging in spite of the late hour, but Miller knew it would not last long. Military showers allowed users to get wet for about thirty seconds, and then the water was cut off during lathering just to be turned on again for a one-minute rinsing – reducing cleaning time to two minutes in an effort to save water.

Poking his head from behind a support beam, Miller casted a glance in the open showers area… and his smile got even wider. The guy scrubbing his dirt away under a shower head was indeed Lieutenant McGee.

Naked, sopping wet, oblivious to his surroundings… Simply perfect.

"The fag is ready for the slaughter! It's too easy, I'd almost pity him!" thought Miller, his maniacal grin changing into a predatory grimace.

Miller approached his prey slowly from behind. He had brought a few 'presents' for the boy-toy – a length of rope to tie his wrists, brass knuckles for his ribs, a blunt spoon to scarify his back, even a small rubber mallet for his fingers and cojones – but the Sergeant would have to strike with his knife first: one good slash at McGee's side and the fag would fall down like a tree, holding his wound to stop the blood from oozing out and completely defenseless; then, a good kick would efficiently fracture the young man's jaw, silencing him and leaving Miller all the time of the world to play with Stephenson's gigolo.

Besides, there was some poetic justice there: McGee had humiliated the Sergeant at Bagram with a knife so it was only fair that the queer should receive the first blow from a blade held by a real man!

One quick look around confirmed Miller that McGee was indeed alone and unharmed; there was nothing remarkable except for the crumpled uniform waiting on a wooden bench, with a pair of discarded combat boots tucked beneath. The only thing close to the Lieutenant was a towel resting on a tiled low wall, next to the shower head he was using. No SIG Sauer handgun in sight, which was logical since firearms and humid environment did not get along, and no blade either. McGee had probably thought he would be safe while taking a shower at this hour of the night and he would pay this false assumption dearly.

"It's payday, you wimp!" thought Miller as he remembered the wrongs McGee had done to him: ridiculing him at Bagram, being the General's pet, pretending to be interested in Captain Wilkins...

But another glance at Tim's long silhouette made him hesitate for a few seconds: McGee was more muscular than the Sergeant had originally thought, contradicting his truism about homosexuals being frail or overweight. In fact, the Lieutenant did not have an ounce of fat on his body: that was odd, considering he was merely a pencil-pusher at Logistics Support and tinkering with a Humvee could not be considered as 'real work'. His skin lacked the whitish color of those scared by outdoors living. Tall, ripped and tanned by the Afghan sun, McGee could easily pass for a straight man – no wonder that imbecile Wilkins was making doe-eyes at him. Could he eventually oppose some resistance to his rightful punishment?

But Miller's arrogance quickly got back on top: McGee's muscles had probably been built in one of those gyms for sissies and they were no match for the bulk forged in the army. The tan was proof that the fag was spending hours sunbathing instead of working. Miller was of the short, sturdy side and resented with a passion every man better equipped than him – since they were numerous, he had come to hate a lot of people. McGee was a good head-and-a-half taller than Miller and he was well-proportioned. The Sergeant felt like choking on his vile bile as another grief was added to his mental list: the fake Lieutenant dared to be handsome and that was simply unforgivable.

"You'll ban mirrors for the rest of your life after I'm through with you, gigolo!" thought Miller, his knife on the ready…


Tim was rinsing the soap from his hair and eyes with a small sigh of relief; he had been working for forty-eight hours non-stop on the Watcher and he was simply exhausted, both physically and mentally.

He had been looking for clues on his laptop by night, and then tried to apply them on the loaned Humvee by day while following the exercise sessions and chores routine at ISAF, and all this had been taking its toll on him. Sure, General Stephenson had told him to not neglect food and sleep – as stated in "The Duckman's guide", too – but Tim had been in a frenzy to find a solution for The Watcher's casing, especially after a jeep had recently been heavily damaged by one of those mysterious landmines while returning from patrol. The casualties had been terrible: one soldier dead, two grievously wounded and the last one deaf for life. Aimee had told him all about it and Tim could not stop but feel a bit guilty; had he had found a solution for the casing earlier, maybe this tragedy could have been avoided.

He had been working so hard that Stephenson – probably warned by discreet and efficient Corporal Roberts – had summoned him to his office this evening to order him to get some rest. The General had brushed away his objections about the urgency of the situation and had jokingly threatened to lock him up at the brig without his laptop so Tim would have no other choices than to sleep. McGee had finally relented, sensing Stephenson was right and he did not have to feel guilty for things out of his control – a sentiment Gibbs used in abundance to put pressure on his teammates.

Tim had left Stephenson's office for a rest in his private quarters, but he had felt too dirty and wound up so he had opted for taking a shower before hitting the sack. The young man had made a habit to wash before bed, to relax his body and grant him a good night's sleep; and maybe, with a little luck, the shape of The Watcher's future casing would pop inside his brains while he dreamed.

McGee had been in the open showers for a moment, enjoying the quietness and the comfort of the room as the water massaged his tense muscles with millions of warm droplets. Facing the wall, he let the spray coming from the perforated nozzle located overhead to rinse his hair of the regulation-issued soap when…

… Suddenly…

… A soft sound was heard behind him.

Not the usual splash-like one expected while using a shower, too – more the kind of noise made by a boot stepping on water. Tim opened his eyes as his cop's instincts raised the alarm inside his head. He glanced downwards and saw a shadow moving on the ceramic tiles of the floor, right behind him.

Danger was near but Tim was nude and alone in a half-lit showers' room where no-one could come to his aid, a situation that could have made anybody feel panicky. However, McGee was far from being a coward and the image of a phoenix bird deploying its huge wings with a war-cry burned inside his mind, its sharp talons shining in a display of power.

Making a run for his clothes was out of the question so he took a deep breath instead, and faked to brush back his short hair with the palm of his right hand, while he extended his left arm towards the towel innocently resting on the tiled low wall…


The Sergeant would have laughed out loud; he could clearly see McGee's right hand resting on his head and it put Miller in a position of strength. It was as if the Lieutenant was begging to be stabbed on the side!

"Another hard lesson to learn, you queer," thought Miller. "Never let the enemy sees what your right hand is doing."

He took another step closer, raised his blade…

Tim suddenly turned around and slashed the air with his left arm.

"AGH!" shouted Miller beneath his balaclava after a large cut was made into his right glove.

Gasping in surprise, he looked incredulously at the Lieutenant and his eyes widened even more at the sight of the black combat knife in McGee's hand.

"Dammed! The faggot has a blade!"

"Who are you?" asked Tim in a dangerously calm voice.

His aggressor was masked and with a weapon but obviously, he had not imagined that Tim would also be armed, even in the shower. The Dark Dove had been tucked inside the towel as the young man had never forgotten Ziva and Stephenson's advice about always keeping this knife close to him. McGee had also counted on the effect of surprise: fighters were unfamiliar with left-handed opponents since southpaws represented only ten percent of the world's population. The Dark Dove had sprung into his hand like of its own accord and Tim had drawn first blood.

Miller, for his part, was torn between outrage and fear as he thought: "He cut me! He cut me! Goddammit, the faggot has cut me! Bastard! But where does this knife comes from? And, Hell! He's left-handed! I should have seen it, dammit! That long streak of piss has cut me!"

The Sergeant was starting to feel nervous; his attack on McGee had had a bad start and, if he did not rectify the situation soon, he could suffer from damages and that was a revolting thought. Kenneth Miller could not be harmed by anybody, especially not a homosexual posing as an officer. His rage overcame the pain and he charged at McGee, his knife held high to strike his opponent right in the face…

But Tim dodged the blow and the Dark Dove lashed at its opponent with a metallic song of death and annihilation.

"ARRRH!" grunted Miller. The first strike had encountered only the air but the second one had hit home: another deep cut had been done, this time on his forearm, in spite of the blouse the Sergeant was wearing. Tim seized the opportunity to place a good kick in his enemy's abdomen, hurling Miller against the wall supporting the pipe work. One of the taps broke under the impact and a gush of hot water poured out of the shower head next to the one Tim had been using, filling the room's floor with an endless flow of hot liquid too abundant to be evacuated by the drains while steam filled the air.

Miller grunted in pain but he quickly forgot about his aching back to resume the combat. McGee was stark-naked for crying out loud, the most vulnerable state possible in a knife fight; he was not supposed to resist for long and yet, he had managed to hit the Sergeant twice!

"I said who are you? What do you want?" shouted Tim over the ruckus of the pouring water. His naked feet were aching from splashing into the hot liquid but he kept a straight face, the Dark Dove glittering from blood in his hand. A third party would have been amazed from the contrast made by Tim's fierce, bare beauty confronted to a faceless, bestial enemy in the heart of a labyrinth-like base, a modern version of Theseus and the Minotaur.

Miller pounced but Tim deflected the blow easily: his fully-dressed aggressor was getting soaked as well and it made his movements clumsy, whereas McGee did not have to worry about being hindered by clothing. However, the water had revealed the contours of SAPI plates the assailant was wearing under his T-shirt and the young man doubted even the Dark Dove could go through these. The armored enemy was also angrier, more experienced than he was in hand-to-hand combat and determined in killing him. Things did not bore well…

Miller lashed out and Tim dodged again.

The Dark Dove sang and Miller yelped again.

A traitorous remnant of soap on the floor caused Tim to lose his footing and he fell on the hard floor with a cry of surprise. Miller roared in joy at this sudden turn of events and he leaped at the young man with his blade ready for the coup de grace

But Tim rolled over and the Dark Dove's blade was rammed into the Sergeant's inner thigh. Miller howled in pain and jumped backwards, his hand pressed against the wound while his victim was scrambling back to his feet.

"Dammed! The little bastard! My leg, he cut my leg! Bastard! He could have cut my balls off!"

"WHO ARE YOU?" shouted Tim, his green eyes shining in fury. This kind of cowardly attack revolted his chivalrous nature and ISAF was supposed to be a safe place, where he would have been able to work on The Watcher without looking over his shoulder and yet, an intruder had been able to infiltrate the base. He had to warn General Stephenson, at once!

As for Miller, he was desperately looking for a way out; the gashes he had sustained had made it impossible to use the rope or the brass knuckles or any of the other 'toys' he had in stock for the fag. His cowardice was screaming inside his brains, telling him to get out of this mess but McGee had proven to be skilled with a knife and, considering his combativeness, he would not let nudity to stop him from chasing after Miller all over ISAF. Only ruse could allow him to save his skin but he had to act quickly.

Miller suddenly held his hands up in the classical gesture of surrender

"Drop your knife!" shouted Tim.

The Sergeant obeyed at once and his weapon clanked on the floor; it had become useless since he could not use the blade or another weapon in his injured condition – but all he needed was for the Lieutenant to come closer…

"Turn back! Hands against the wall!" said Tim.

Miller did as he was told and then McGee seized his right wrist to twist his arm painfully behind his back.

"Ouch! That little bastard is arresting me like a cop!" protested the Sergeant inwardly, but he only let out a muffled sound beneath the soaked balaclava he was wearing over his face.

"What did you say?" asked McGee, leaning to listen.

More mumbles followed and Tim got too close: the Sergeant head-butted him in a backwards motion, dazing the young man and causing him to let go of the suspect. Miller kicked like a mule and Tim stumbled against the opposite wall, giving his aggressor the opportunity to pick up his knife from the ground and run his way to freedom, ignoring the pain of his injured thigh. Within seconds, Miller had left the sub-level floor to run outside, towards a garage where he had set up one of his secret caches; he would find shelter there, and also rags to dress his wounds and a change of clothes.

Tim remained alone in the showers' room, leaning heavily against the wall to catch his breath. His heart was pounding inside his chest like a hammer and his mind reeled from what had just happened. The head-butt had not been hard enough to break his nose but his face was hurting all over and his left fist was still holding the Dark Dove in an iron-like grip. Ziva's present had been very useful, indeed, and he made a mental note to send her friend a Thank-you card –not like the one Gibbs and Tony suggested him to write after Kate's death – to express his gratitude. Without that weapon, his aggressor would have won the upper hand easily and God knew what abominations he had in stock for the young man. But who was this assailant? Certainly not a Taliban or the likes since the man was wearing military equipment – but the very idea of an American soldier attacking him was appalling!

Unfortunately, the blood from the Dark Dove's blade had been washed away by the pouring water so no DNA analysis could be done; Tim had not recognized the man under the balaclava he was wearing – it had acted like pantyhose deforming a bank robber's face while perpetrating a crime. As for the voice, the noise of the broken shower had muffled the sound and McGee was not sure he could identify it.

On top of everything, the suspect had managed to flee thanks to his stupidity; some investigator he was! Had Tim been in DC, Gibbs would have heaped insults on him for a month for having being fooled so easily while Tony laughed his ass off, stating loud and clear that Probie was definitively not cut for field work – not even in the showers. No doubts General Stephenson would be furious after him!

The contact of the hot water on his sole of his feet was getting impossible to endure as the flow created a burning wading pool in the showers, plus Tim was starting to suffocate from the steam. He roused himself from his torpor and quickly gathered his towel before stepping out of the shower. However, the cloth had fallen on the floor during the fight and it was also dripping wet, thus it did not help him much in getting dry.

Tim donned on his T-shirt and pants as best as he could, grabbed his boots and put the Dark Dove back into its sheath before exiting the showers' room, which was starting to look like the bath house of Hell. Stephenson had to learn about the attack and Tim would not hush up this incident out of fear for his future. If the General called him an incompetent and ordered him to go back to DC, so be it – but at least Stephenson would be warned about the intruder and he would take actions to increase the security of the people living at ISAF.

TBC…