Author's Note:

I know! Another chapter so soon! I don't even know what to do with myself right now. So enjoy! Hopefully 29 will be done just as quickly. Please review and let me know that I still have readers.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Misdirections

On nights he is unable to find peace, Eli David paces instead. He puts on the lush wool slippers that were a gift from his mother over a decade ago, walks down the long hallway to the den he designed with his son in mind, and worriedly paces the dark hardwood floor. There are faint wear patterns on the floor there, from endless nights of his feet shifting back and forth. He knows the number of steps it takes to cross the large space when he's angry or tense (twelve) as well as the number of steps it takes when he's distracted or distant (fifteen and a half). He knows the exact time of night based on the angle of moonlight through the heavy green curtains. The smell that occupies the space, a slightly musky combination of leather and cigar smoke, occasionally plagues him when he's tense in places other than his home. On those nights, he neglects food or comfort and instead seeks out his floor.

This is not one of those nights.

Tonight he is calm; content, even. He's been home almost an hour now and has eaten his dinner, prepared by the cook who leaves well before Eli ever gets home. He's removed his tie and jacket and placed them gently on the chaise lounge, where they'll be until they're put away the next morning by the maid who comes every day. He's examined the phone messages left for him and decided which ones merit his immediate response – none of them do. He's just about to removes his shoes for the night when his intercom buzzes, interrupting his slow unwind from the day.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Sir, you won't believe this."

He exhales loudly, already irritated with the man's desire to play guessing games. "What won't I believe?"

"Anthony DiNozzo, the American, is standing at the front gate."

All thoughts of his shoes have now ceased.

"Is he armed?"

"No, sir. He has nothing. He only says that he wants a meeting, not an altercation."

It only takes a moment for Eli to decide that he will allow Agent DiNozzo into his house. It takes slightly longer to decide why the man would be willing to surrender himself to Mossad at nine o'clock at night, alone. And why would he choose Eli David's home, of all places? He wonders why he is not with Ziva. The death of Nathaniel Omari tells him that Ziva survived their encounter but she has not made an appearance since, nor has she sent him any kind of message. He's unsure of if that is a good sign or a bad one, but there was only one way to know for sure.

"Let him in."

Eli enters the password that allows passage into his estate and waits a few seconds for the guard to enter the other half of the code. The wait isn't long – the blinking red light flashes a prolonged bright green to herald the American's entrance into his enemy's home. A few minutes later, a touch to his door bell alerts him to their presence at his door. He opens it and sees his guard alongside a man who looks very different when compared to the man he knew months ago.

DiNozzo's hair is slightly longer and messier than Eli remembers it. His eyes are the same cloudy green-gray but are framed by far more lines than he's sure the man cares to admit. Rather than the tailored suits he occupied in his life at NCIS, he is wearing ragged cargo pants and a black cotton shirt. His face is slightly sunburned. The mild conceit that kept a smile on the man's face and his nose turned slightly upward was nowhere to be found. He seems older and quieter. It appears as though life without the luxuries has treated the man very, very poorly.

"It's interesting that you came here, Anthony," Eli says quietly.

"It's interesting that you let me in, Eli," he returns but without any trace of his usual cocky sarcasm. "Can we talk?"

"Please," he says and stands aside so the man can step past time. "Jacob, I believe we'll be fine. Thank you."

The man nods and closes the door. Eli briefly notices the green light of the security board turning back to its typical blinking red. Then, all is quiet. He turns and finds his one-time adversary standing calmly in the middle of the foyer, examining his surroundings. If he has any ulterior motives, they're not immediately apparent. Eli clears his throat to break whatever trance DiNozzo is trapped in. He turns around to face him.

"Follow me into the main house. Can I get you a drink?" he asks hospitably, though not off his guard. DiNozzo nods.

"Scotch, if you have it."

Eli leads him through an overly ornate dining room and through a small sitting room to the kitchen. It's large with pristine black tile floors and cream-colored walls. The wet bar is an island in the middle of the floor. He finds the good scotch and pours two fingers into two bar glasses. He slides one to DiNozzo and keeps the other for himself, taking a full drink from it before regarding the man again.

"Why are you here, Agent DiNozzo?"

"I'm not an agent anymore," he replies. "And that's what I'm here for."

"Do you believe I would, or even could, return you to NCIS?" he asks, genuinely surprised. "You killed an office of mine. Michael was a good man. Why would you possibly presume I would help you?"

"Because I'm willing to offer you what you couldn't have otherwise," DiNozzo replies, draining his glass with two loud gulps and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll give you Ziva."


I listen to Tony's conversation with the guard on bated breath, waiting to hear yelling or the sound of gunfire. It does not come, however – the only sounds we hear are words garbled by the cloth of Tony's pockets, where he has hidden his earpiece to keep from garnering suspicion. The guard, shocked, simply tells my father who is there to see him and though I cannot hear him through Tony's microphone, I assume that my father agrees to let them in. I hear the gate opening and McGee's quick announcement that they are disarming the system. A minute later, he informs us that he's placed the block in the system and that we are free to continue.

"Ready?" Martin asks, pulling his revolver from its holster and checking the magazine.

"Does it matter?" I ask him in return, strapping a blade to my thigh.

"Not a bit." He hands me one of his guns and I tuck it into the holster on my hip. "Are you going to kill him?"

The question stuns me. "What do you think?"

"I think it's instinct for you, just like it is for me," he says and I want to abandon this line of questioning. "I thought that about you when I first met you in Paris."

"Did you?" I ask. I only remember being cold, sleepy, and hungry. I do not remember being intimidating.

"Yeah. It's amazing how much you've changed since then," he says pointedly and then promptly changes the subject before I can question him about his point. "Time to go, I think. I'll watch out for you."

"McGee," I ask aloud, "Are they safely out of view?"

"Of you, yeah," he replies in our earpieces. "They're in the kitchen, talking. I say you've got some time."

"Then that's our cue," Martin says and stands aside, waiting for me to begin my part of the plan. Tony's done his part – now it is my turn to take the leap.

"Thank you, Martin. For everything," I say and pull him into a hug before he can shrink away from it. "But I need you to do one more thing for me."

"What's that?"

"If something happens, if something goes wrong, I want you to get Tony out of here," I say and Martin starts to roll his eyes. "No, I am serious. Tony is unarmed and vulnerable. I am at least capable of defending myself. Please, please promise me you'll get him out."

He nods. "Yeah, I'll do it. Just go."

My destination is the third floor, where my father keeps his office. It is the only window he has ever kept unlocked – he paces there at night and does not want the alarm connected to that window because he opens it frequently and does not want to deal with disarming it. It used to worry me, despite the fact that not many people knew that. Now I am using it to my advantage. Still atop the stone wall, I give Martin a nod and make the long leap toward the second-floor terrace.

My lack of activity shows now – rather than easily making the jump to the railing and climbing over, I barely graze the structure and have to grasp desperately at the rails to keep myself from falling onto the brightly lit patio. This time I feel a stitch in my forearm tear and it makes me wince. I force my arms to support my weight as my damp hands grasp at the slick bars in hopes of finding some safe ground. My muscles strain and my legs flex, waiting for the opportunity to find solid ground. Just when I think I have gained enough distance to throw my legs over the side, a firm hand on my ankle has me falling back to the ground.


"You're joking," Eli says, obviously surprised.

"Why would I kid about that?" DiNozzo replies, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm tired, David. I'm so tired. I'm tired of the running and the fear and the paranoia. I'm done. I'm ready to give you whatever it is you want so I can go home."

"And you think I want Ziva?"

DiNozzo stares at him. "Don't you?"

"Oh, admittedly, I have desired a counsel with my daughter for some time now. But that does not mean I'm willing to trade a few petty words with her to give you whatever you want." He takes another drink of lukewarm scotch. "What is it you want, exactly?"

"My life back," the man offers simply. "I want to go home, and I want to go back to work for NCIS. I want my car and my apartment back. That's it. I just want to go home knowing you won't follow me or hurt me or someone I care about."

"And Ziva?"

"What about her?"

"Isn't she someone you care about?" Eli asks carefully, searching for any signs of a tell on his features. "She certainly used to be. Why are you no longer together?"

"Oh, we're supposed to be meeting somewhere in three days," he replies. "But with any luck I won't be there. She only cares about herself – you have to know that by now. She didn't care about Michael and she didn't care about me. I'm not risking my life for someone who doesn't give a shit about me either way."

Eli can't help but chuckle at this. "You speak very candidly about my daughter, Mr. DiNozzo. Not many people dare to, particularly in my presence."

"Hey," he replies, "You asked. I answered."

"That you did," Eli says, nodding. "And if I told you I was interested in this arrangement?"

DiNozzo smiles. "Then I say we're well on our way to an agreement."

"Where is she?"

"Where's my guarantee you won't have me killed as soon as I'm done telling you?" he asks and Eli smiles.

"What is the use?" he says. "Much like the headache Michael's death caused for NCIS, I have no desire to do the same when I explain your death to America's authorities. This arrangement would be mutually beneficial – maybe more so for me, as you would be a walking example of my mercy and leniency with Israel's allies."

"Okay, fair enough," he says and sighs loudly. "She's in Spanish Basque. She told me to wait a few days before showing up so we weren't seen together. I think she's hoping I get caught on my way in, since I can't blend in these situations nearly as well as she can."

"And how have you been doing all this traveling, might I ask?" Eli says, curious beyond his ability to keep quiet about it. "It is no easy feat to travel as wanted terrorists across international borders."

"Connections I didn't even know," DiNozzo responds. "Ziva kept making phone calls and people kept showing up. I didn't hear a single name the whole time we were there. I guess she didn't think she could trust me."

"I do not think Ziva ever really trusts anyone, so you shouldn't be insulted," he says and sets down his glass. "I believe we've found ourselves in agreement. Let me go upstairs and make some calls. You'll be on a plane to American soil tomorrow."

DiNozzo smiles and lifts his glass in toast. "Cheers to that."


The hard ground breaks my fall, knocking the air from my lungs, and seconds later there is a gun in my face. It is attached to a hairy, muscular arm in a business jacket. My father's personal security. The man has not yet had time to register my identity before two large hands cover his forehead and chin and yank them violently in opposite directions. He dies wordlessly, falling down to lie beside me on the fallen leaves and densely-packed dirt. I look up at Martin and nod my thanks. He pulls back to my feet and gives me a leg-up to the terrace. With the solid ground of my father's home beneath by feet, my adrenaline begins to peak and I find myself slipping into the blank frame of mind that made me such a successful killer.

There is no longer a safety net for me - I am on my own from here.