Hey. So. One year later. Yeah... So much for getting an update done in a month from my last one, huh?
I don't want to get into why it is I took so long with this one. Not up here, anyway; that information is at the bottom note. It's honestly hard to write, so I hope most of you read that before getting angry at me for not updating.
Enough of that though, let's get to the long-awaited chapter.
Disclaimer: The TV show NCIS belongs to CBS.
The screaming in Gibbs' gut faded. Honed down to a fine, sharp edge. "Who is this?"
He felt Vance and Fornell's eyes go to him with that question.
"You have a drive of mine; I have an Agent of yours," the voice answered, exact tone and depth distorted, but its sheer presence undeniably powerful. His words a hammer, his voice the anvil. "This call will be establishing a time to exchange."
The elevator reached their floor. Gibbs ran out before the doors finished opening. CIA were setting up wherever there was an empty desk. Sometimes where the desk was already occupied. Smith was in the Bullpen with two of his guys, ignoring Bishop's questioning of their identity. She looked ready to grab her weapon from the drawer.
"Yeah, well you sound like a bored prank caller to me," he said, snapping a finger at Bishop as he walked by her desk. He pointed to his phone when she looked up.
"I don't raise to insults, Agent Gibbs. Nor, I think, do you. Let us not waste time exchanging such frivolities."
Gibbs sat at his desk, looking at Bishop as she worked at her computer. "Whatever you say, Death."
Out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs saw Smith turn toward him.
"I consider sarcasm an insult," said Death. "I will dismiss it this time on the grounds of your team's present state."
Hot anger boiled in his gut. A rage, billowing and terrible.
He's mocking Tim.
"Regardless, we have business. The flash drive I seek will be placed in an envelope. Exactly three hours and twenty minutes from now, a single, unaccompanied NCIS Agent will carry that envelope onto the Red Line train at Union Station and leave it under the rearmost seat of the final car. They will leave before the train departs."
Gibbs glanced up at Bishop. She shook her head, typing faster. "And how are we going to get this all-important flash drive for you?"
"You already have."
So he knew they had it. Somehow. "Not sure what you're talking about. What drive?"
"You have tried my patience once. Don't go for twice. I have given my instructions. Carry them out, or suffer my consequences."
There was a click.
Then the line went dead.
Gibbs dropped the phone onto his desk, just keeping himself from throwing it across the room. He looked back to Bishop.
"Signal was bouncing everywhere," she said, voice quiet and cold. It got that way when she was angry. "I couldn't get him, Gibbs."
The news was expected, but no less devastating. Death had Tony, and they'd missed out on one of the best ways to track them down. And now they were on a clock. Three hours and twenty minutes. No way to know what would happen if they failed to meet that deadline, but from what Gibbs had seen and experienced so far, there would be consequences.
Grave consequences.
Smith stepped up to his desk. "Agent Gibbs. Was that who I think it was?"
"Don't know," he said, tone clipped, only partially winning the battle to keep his anger in check. He glanced up into Smith's blank eyes. "Who was it?"
Smith remained expressionless.
"I'm sorry, but what the hell's going on up here?"
Gibbs turned to the new voice. Torres and Quinn approached, looking cautious. Quinn sported a bandage on her upper arm, where a ricochet had ended up stuck in her right triceps.
"Bishop, Quinn, Torres. This is Smith, of the CIA" Gibbs said. "He's taken over our investigation."
"We'll be working together." Smith smiled that unamused, discomforting smile at them, then his attention fell fully on Bishop. "Eleanor, correct? I knew you as Charlie, back in your NSA days. Your information was helpful in Operation Ironheart."
He turned, looking at Quinn. "Alexandra Quinn. Formerly of FLETC. Your trainees liked you." Finally, he looked at Torres. "Nicholas Torres. Good work in Panama."
Gibbs saw Torres tense. Eyes narrow slightly with suspicion.
"Well, since you introduced your team, allow me to introduce mine." Smith gestured to one of the two men he'd brought to the Bullpen. He was of average height and build, with dark skin, a clean-shaven face, and salt-and-pepper hair. He had set down two computer towers at McGee's old desk, and several other CIA personnel had joined him in setting up some kind of portable display in front of the TV.
"That's Agent White. Leads logistics and intelligence," Smith said, as if they already knew the man.
Smith nodded to the second man. He was tall, solidly-built, heavily-tanned, and bearded. He had moved from the Bullpen to several other operatives who had brought rifle cases up to the Squadroom. "That's Agent Black. He's Ops."
They're with the Special Activities Center, Gibbs thought, looking between Agent Black and the other men he talked to. Specifically, these guys were SOG—or the Special Operations Group. The CIA's elite-of-the-elite. The gundogs of every compartmentalized military operation out of Langley.
And Gibbs had about thirty of them in his Squadroom.
"Now that pleasantries are out of the way, where's Ziva David?"
Gibbs' eye twitched. He turned back to Smith, frowning. "She's not part of the investigation."
"But she is part of this," Smith said, meeting his stare. "She's been off the grid for months, operating against our bad guy. Her intelligence would be appreciated."
He didn't like Smith's words. His inflections—or lack of. The first question he asked after taking over Gibbs' team wasn't about Death, what he'd done, what he'd said. Not the flash drive. It wasn't even about the investigation itself.
It was about her.
"Can't say I know," he said. "I don't keep track of her."
"I'm sure she's around." Smith's eyes went to the room, moving from face to face. "I'll see if I can track her down. Introduce myself. Share what you've found in your investigation with White, along with the… dialogue you just had on the phone; he'll coordinate."
With that, he walked away.
And Gibbs' gut started talking to him.
Smith was after Ziva. Why, he didn't know. How he knew she was in the building, he didn't know. How he knew she was alive, he didn't know; they hadn't given her name to the Metro detectives who showed up at his house. But the how didn't bother him.
It was the why he was more worried about.
His team—plus Fornell—grouped up at his desk.
"Is this for real, Gibbs?" asked Bishop, watching Smith as he from desk to desk, sometimes greeting the NCIS Agent there, sometimes just walking away.
"Unfortunately," he said.
"There's nothing legal about this, right?" Quinn asked.
"There is when the Presidential Cabinet gets involved," said Fornell. "Your Director got dumped, so now we have a bunch of CIA Spooks running the show."
"Explains why Vance looked like he's gonna murder someone," said Bishop, glancing up to the now-closed door to Leon's office. Gibbs had little doubt he was about to raise hell.
"That guy knows stuff he shouldn't," Torres said, his tone tense, eyes carrying a defensive edge to them. A wolf that just got its tail yanked.
"You're telling me?" Bishop added. "I'm not allowed to even mention Operation Ironheart until I'm putting my teeth in a jar every night!"
"Focus," Gibbs cut in. "Death wants us to make a drop at the Red Line at Union Station. I want every blueprint we have of that place on my desk in thirty minutes."
"What are we supposed to drop?" Quinn asked. Gibbs concluded she and Torres hadn't heard that part of his call.
"He lost a flash drive. Wants it back."
"The one DiNozzo had?" Bishop asked.
"Same one."
"But, we don't have that… do we?"
Gibbs looked at Quinn. "Listen, you and Torres are gonna talk to White; share what you've found."
Torres gave him a look. "But we haven't fo—"
Gibbs eyes darted to him.
Torres shut his mouth.
"Got it," said Quinn, casually tapping her nose. She and Torres went to introduce themselves to White.
"Bishop—" Gibbs started, turning to her. She looked suspicious. She'd noticed he hadn't answered the question. "Talk to your NSA friends. See if any of them can help with tracking my last call," he said, then leaned closer. "I hear the hospital has the best coverage on the Yard."
She kept looking at him, eyes narrowed and locked with his. An entire conversation played out in that brief moment. She went for the elevator without a word, and he knew the absent member of their team would be safer than he was.
Then it was just him and Fornell.
He knew without saying anything that Tobias was thinking the same thing he was. Asking the same questions.
Vance got blindsided. The CIA was running point, setting up shop in the cubicles all around him. Wasn't unheard of for the CIA to get involved in domestic issues; God knew NCIS and the Agency had a history.
Except this time, Gibbs' investigation was a joint one before Smith and his goons rolled in. FBI had dedicated two dozen of their Agents at the Hoover Building to this case just in the last two hours. Fornell had as much authority as Gibbs did.
Vance got blindsided. Gibbs found out as soon as Leon did.
So why hadn't Fornell gotten a call?
"I'm gonna grab some files from my office," Fornell said, a little louder than he needed to. "Should be back soon."
Gibbs nodded, and off Tobias went.
Gibbs grabbed his phone from his desk and made himself busy with a few, unimportant emails. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Smith, waiting until the CIA Spook was turned away or otherwise distracted. He saw an opportunity appear when Smith turned to the main elevators.
He took it.
He grabbed his phone, locked his computer, then quickly strode to the back elevators, where Abby's lab could be accessed.
Something about this stunk.
The man handed the phone off to a lesser Operative, then left the ops center. His guards, as always, followed closely; the Region Senior caught up after giving the others further instructions.
"How did he get to NCIS without our knowing?"
"I've been investigating that, sir."
"And?"
The Region Senior hesitated. "Unfortunately, I'm still working on it."
The man gave the Senior a look. "I suggest finding out before NCIS delivers the drive. I will not tolerate complications."
"Sir." The Region Senior nodded once, a sign of respect, then took his leave.
Behind the man, a phone rang. A phone from the case carried by one of his entourage.
He answered on the third ring.
"What is the CIA doing in our building, Gibbs?"
He wanted to smile at Abby as he entered the lab. He didn't. "Taking over our investigation."
"They can't do that!"
"They did."
"Well, undo it." She gave him a look, as if she expected him to turn around right then and kick Smith and his agents out to the curb.
He shook his head, working his jaw. "Can't do that, Abbs."
"You have to, Gibbs. This isn't right. We're the ones who've done all the work. We're the ones who've suffered because of that work."
"Abby."
She cut her hands in front of her. "Nope, nope. Don't have time to be comforted right now. Too much to do. Too many scenes to process. Not enough Abby."
He looked at the table beside them. Every square inch of it was covered in boxes and evidence bags. Torn fabrics. Glass. Bricks. Bent metal. Anything and everything that could give them any information about their multiple, sprawling crime scenes.
There was no way she could leave the lab. Not with so much to go over. McGee was across the yard, fighting to live another day. And she couldn't be there.
That had to be tearing her up.
"Abby."
"Right. What do I have? Well, Gibbs—I got nothing. Well, I got things, just not what you're looking for." She walked to the other side of her evidence table and held up a bag of shell casings. "These shells are 6.8×51 mm, which are much less common than the 5.56 or the 7.62. Like, super, super uncommon outside gun enthusiasts. That should make it easier to track who purchased them. But, because the universe hates us, these shells are also custom made and were custom loaded, and don't originate from a manufacturer in our database or the FBI's."
She unceremoniously dropped the bag back on the table, then used a glove to pick up a blackened brick. "From the residue on this, I can confirm the explosives used to blow up the warehouse was RDX. This particular batch was actually made legally, by an Army contractor. It was part of a shipment that went missing in 2011. Case solved!"
"Abb—"
She dropped the brick too, its thud cutting him off. "As for the tire marks left behind by our bad guys, they belong to a luxury brand, probably Range Rovers, which match your description. Problem is, there are thousands of Range Rovers in the D.C area, not including commuters and rentals, which leaves us far too many suspects to be of any use to Tony. Or McGee. Or Tony's Dad. Or anyone!"
She raised her voice at the last word. Shouted it with a fire he knew she had, but rarely let out. Her eyes reflected that flame. Gave light to the conflict in her heart. The fury in her gut, directed at one faceless figure. One shadow whose name was all over everything.
"Abbs," he said. "You can'—"
"NO!"
He shut his mouth.
"Don't you dare tell me what I can't do, Gibbs. Not this time. Because all this? Everything that's happened so far, what might happen? It's not what we've faced before. This isn't some normal case, where we're hunting someone with a vendetta against a cheating wife or husband, or some greedy accountant or, anything like that. This is us against evil. And so far, evil's gotten Ziva's friend, he almost Tony Senior, he's gotten a lot of people I used to say hi to at the cafe. And he might get—"
She cut herself off.
Her mask slipped. And beneath that angry facade, he saw the pain she'd been hiding. The worry. The fear. The mourning she didn't have time to address, lest she miss something.
He saw Kelly.
Gibbs crossed the lab and stood in front of her. She watched him approach, her face trying to stay angry, her eyes searching. Waiting for him to give her something to latch onto. A plan. A hope. A piece of good news.
He had nothing.
She hugged him, and he hugged her back. Wrapped his arms around her shoulders and let her latch onto something familiar. Something calming and sure.
They stayed like that for a few seconds. Then he had to break away. "Abbs," he said again, slowly. "I know where you don't want to be here right now."
"I know."
"If there were anyone else as good at forensics…"
"I know." She took a quick, deep breath. "Best thing I can do is be here. Help find the assholes that did this."
He nodded, and in that moment she grew even stronger in his eyes. "Where's Ziva?"
Abby frowned. "She's not upstairs? She said she was going up to see if you needed her for anything."
Gibbs felt his gut jolt a warning. A slight tension, ready to spring. "She left the Squadroom before the CIA got here."
"You mean you haven't seen her since then?"
He shook his head.
Abby looked confused. Then her lips parted, her eyes widening. She darted to the back room of her lab, and he followed. He noticed the makeshift bed on the floor, and the little girl occupying it.
And the open partially-open drawer of a nearby cabinet.
Abby walked to the drawer, stepping lighter than before, likely because of the sleeping Tali. She looked into the drawer, then froze. "She took them…"
"Took what?"
"They were in there. I kept them there. Why would she take them? What was she…?"
"Abbs."
She looked at him, anger and confusion joining the initial surprise he'd seen. "I kept my car keys in there, Gibbs."
The tension in his gut fled. Instead, his stomach dropped.
Ziva was missing.
She had Abby's keys.
And she had the drive.
Ziva felt her black heart rotting in her chest.
She stole a car. She stole Abby's car. Abby. The same Abby who'd just helped Tali feel safe and happy for the first time since this all started. The same Abby who had been a true friend for years. A trusted confidant, intent on making all those around her feel treasured and loved.
Ziva had stolen that confidant's car. And she's left her daughter.
Again.
But she had no choice. She'd known that the moment she'd seen a line of black SUVs drive by Abby's window. Had known as soon as she'd moved down the hallway, to another window, and saw clearly paramilitary personnel leave those same SUVs.
She'd known as soon as she saw his face.
So she ran. Betrayed a friend. Abandoned her flesh and blood for the second time. It was only right. She endangered Tali last time. Now, she had to protect her. Protect everyone.
Ziva glanced down to the center console. The drive sat there, jumping in a cup holder. So much grief over something so small. Caused by Death and others.
She needed to put a stop to it. Once and for all.
But first, she needed a place to hide.
With one hand still on the wheel, Ziva took out a burner phone and sent a text to an unsaved number.
Odette. Z. Is your hut still free?
"And tell me how is it that a protected, critical witness to war crimes and a former NCIS Agent goes missing in our own building, Agent Gibbs."
Gibbs stood in front of Vance's desk, along with Smith, who stood behind him, near the conference table, watching. Pacing. Silent. The three of them were the room's only occupants.
"She took Abby's keys," Gibbs said, "then left the building through a side entrance. We have footage of her exiting the Yard in Abby's car."
"APB?"
"Already sent out to Metro, Maryland State Troopers, and the Virginia Highway Patrol."
"Do they know how dangerous she is?" Smith asked.
His eye twitched. "They've been told what they need to know."
Vance raised a brow. Understanding, but firm.
"They know she's a former Agent," Gibbs said, after a moment. "They know she is an expert marksman. Highly skilled hand-to-hand combatant. Extremely proficient in blending in."
"Do they know she is paranoid? That she's killed seven people since illegally entering the United States?"
A hot, burning, protective fury rose up in his gut. Gibbs turned on Smith, glaring. Fighting the urge to cross the room and confront the other man for the implication behind his words. The suggestion.
Ziva being unstable.
Smith was unphased by the glare and the clenched fists at Gibbs' sides. "Don't get excited. It's a legitimate question. We both know Ziva David is far from her usual self at the moment."
"With damned good reason."
"Yes, only now, she's stolen one of your team's personal vehicles and appears to be fleeing from the law. She's left her young daughter unattended for the second time. Hardly a rational thing, isn't it?"
Gibbs let his self-control go and took the first step.
"Enough!"
Gibbs stopped, just, at the Director's word and halted after his second step. He could see the masked surprise in Smith's unfeeling eyes. The instantaneous reexamination. The consideration of just what Gibbs had planned to do had he crossed the distance between them.
Gibbs wasn't entirely certain himself.
"I understand you feel strongly about Ziva David's well-being, Agent Gibbs," Smith said, after a moment, "but you and I both know we can't afford emotions at this time."
Whenever he spoke, Gibbs got the feeling Smith didn't have time for emotions at all. Not even Gibbs' favorite: righteous fury. "You're framing Ziva as a suspect we need to arrest."
"A person of interest," Smith corrected bluntly. "One whom I'd rather question than have shot on sight."
"You make it sound like those are the only options," Vance said.
"My unit plays by efficient rules, Director. I've already shown restraint by not sending my people out to track her."
"Need I remind you that you are a guest in thi—"
Smith's phone rang, and he answered it, holding up a finger to Vance. "Go." He listened for a moment, then asked, "Understood. I'll be right down." He hung up, walked by Gibbs, and moved toward the door.
"Something to share?" Gibbs asked, drily.
"Unrelated to this situation," Smith said without looking back. "Share what you decide to do about David. When you're done, I'll fill you in on the plan I've made regarding the drop point."
He left without waiting for a response.
Gibbs' eye twitched, jaw faintly aching from how hard he clenched it. He hated this. Hated being ordered around by someone who didn't give one damn about what happened to his people. Hated not knowing who that someone really was. Hated being unable to do anything about it.
"That man is an eel. More than Kort ever was."
Gibbs turned back to Vance, showing his agreement with a slight nod. "Yeah."
"He's more important, too," Vance went on, "I've been on the phone since he arrived, trying to figure out how he's got the President backing him."
"And?"
"And I got nothing. Sec Nav barely told me his hands were tied before hanging up. The Attorney General said he wasn't involved and didn't want to be. Sec Def's secretaries put me through to voicemail. CIA and FBI won't even pick up. NCIS has been isolated. Smith showing up here turned us into a political blackhole who one wants to get close to."
"He's got a reputation, then."
"Clearly. But it's not one I've been privy to. Whoever he is to the CIA, he's got a hell of a big fish backing him, Gibbs. Big enough to get him presidential backing and every other agency out of his way."
Then there was the note Ziva had left in Abby's drawer, where the car keys had been: Don't trust him.
No danger of that, Gibbs thought. But what drove him? What was his real interest in being here, at the forefront of the Death investigation?
Who really was Smith?
"You look angrier than normal, Gibbs."
"I am," he said.
"Something you want to share?"
"Doesn't feel right."
"What doesn't?"
"Everything."
Vance nodded. "I know. CIA, I get them not taking my calls. But Director Summers over at the FBI? We have lunch twice a month. Take turns hosting each other for dinner. I've counted him as a friend. There's no reason why he wouldn't talk to me about this."
"No reason why Ziva would leave NCIS, either."
Vance sat in his chair, looking composed. Gibbs knew, right then, it was a front. "No, no I can't come up with any answer to that, either."
"You can come up with one," Gibbs said, knowingly.
Leon gave him a look for that. The lack of Vance dismissing the remark, or asking Gibbs for clarification, told him Leon knew what was on Ziva's note without even knowing there was one.
"Maybe," Leon said. "But that just raises the question why she felt the need to run when she had hundreds of NCIS Agents around her."
That… that Gibbs could offer a little clarity on. He stepped around the desk and hit the button he knew locked down the room. The sound of vacuum seals activating followed, along with the door locking itself, and the phone losing power.
Vance raised a brow. "Gibbs," he said, and the single word was both a demand and a question.
"Just before Smith got here, Ziva found something," Gibbs said. "She shared it to me, right before he rolled in and took over."
Vance stared. Waiting.
"DiNozzo hid the flash drive in one of Tali's toys."
"The flash drive? The one Death wants us to drop off at Union?"
Gibbs nodded once.
"She took it with her, didn't she?"
"Yeah."
Vance took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. "Without that, we're facing whatever it is this son of a bitch has in mind for consequences. He's already killed more than a dozen of us, Gibbs. I don't want to see what his definition of a reckoning is."
"Neither do I, Leon."
"Find her, Gibbs."
The words were a dismissal, and Gibbs accepted it. He exited the office and returned to the Bullpen. Smith was nowhere to be found, but Agent White was. "Where's Smith?" Gibbs asked.
White gave him a somewhat surprised look, like he hadn't expected Gibbs to talk to him. "He's in Interrogation."
Gibbs' eye twitched. "Interrogation?"
"Yes. Seems they're close to a breakthrough."
Gibbs was moving before the end of White's statement. Interrogation. Smith couldn't be doing anything good in there. Who did they have? What questions was he asking?
His phone rang as he entered the hallway leading to Interrogation. He answered on the second ring. "Gibbs."
"Just got a call from a friend in Fort Meade," Bishop said.
"Yeah? What did they say?"
"Friend says the NSA is in a frenzy. Like the same level as Snowden."
That couldn't be good. "She say why?"
"Couldn't," Bishop said, and Gibbs could hear the sigh in her voice. He shared the silent frustration. "But there's no way it's unrelated to what's been happening with Death."
He agreed with that. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. They said to watch our backs; they think the NSA is preparing for a war."
Definitely. Not. Good. But there was nothing either of them could do about it. "How's McGee?" Gibbs asked, changing the topic. For both their sakes.
Bishop sighed, audibly. "Just got out of surgery. Doctors are cautious, but it looks like he's going to be okay. Eventually."
"Eventually?"
"Bullet went straight through one of his vertebrae. They say it was a one-in-a-million it didn't sever his spinal cord. He's going to be bedridden until it's fully repaired."
Gibbs slowed in the hallway, the news shocking him to a halt. McGee bedridden. Not at his desk. Not on the Team.
But alive. That was the important part.
He nodded to himself, accepting the news, then resumed his earlier pace. "We'll be sure to help he and Delilah through this."
"Yeah."
There was something else behind the single word. Gibbs sensed it. Felt it.
It wasn't good.
"Something wrong, Bishop?"
She didn't answer.
Alarms went off in his gut, and Gibbs slowed again. This time all the way to a stop. "Ellie." The name sounded strange to him, but he knew—instinctively—that this was one of the rare occasions he had to use it.
Her slow sigh was audible through the phone. "Senior's gone, Gibbs."
Gibbs felt a stab in his gut. Senior. Art dealer. Womanizer. Self-proclaimed entrepreneur. Tony's father. Dead. Tony had lost his father, and he didn't even know yet.
Someone had to tell Tali.
"Gibbs?"
He shook himself, forced himself to continue toward Interrogation. "When?" It was all he could ask. He'd told the doctors to update him. He'd given his number.
"While we were getting shot at," Bishop said, quietly. "Pressure built up in his skull. They couldn't relieve it in time."
He said nothing.
"He never woke up. They told me he wouldn't have felt a thing."
Doctors always said that. "We'll arrange something for him later."
"Yeah…"
As he approached Interrogation, Gibbs noticed two things. First, there was a SOG guy standing in front of the Interrogation room door. Second, he could hear noises from the room itself.
Most of them sounded painful.
"Gotta go," he said. "Call if McGee wakes up."
He hung up without hearing her reply and moved to the SOG guy. He was big—taller than Gibbs, a lot wider in the chest. Big arms pumped up from the boredom of sitting on a FOB with nothing to do. Hewatched Gibbs approach with impassive eyes.
Gibbs stopped in front of him. "Move."
He didn't.
Someone inside Interrogation screamed.
Any doubt—any hope—Gibbs had about what was happening behind the door vanished. "You're in NCIS. You don't get to keep me out of my Interrogation room."
"Smith gave me orders," the SOG guy said, his voice calm and quiet. Forged from a dozen missions Gibbs would never know about.
"Yeah? We'll see about that." He walked back from the door, toward the observation room. The SOG guy told Gibbs to stop. He didn't. He opened the door to observation and found it empty, its recording equipment turned off.
While he was briefly out of sight, Gibbs dialed Vance, then placed the phone back in his pocket. Then he went to the two-way mirror. Inside Interrogation, the camera had been disconnected, the table removed. The overhead light was turned off in favor of two big, blinding floodlights standing on either side of the suspect's chair. Smith was standing to the side as two operatives from SOG crowded that chair, shouting in the face of the Russian hitman who'd attacked his house.
He looked like he'd been hit by a truck. Deep cuts and bruises covered his face, one of his cheeks swollen like a balloon along with one eye. His hands were shackled to the table in front of him, fingers spread. Bloody.
At least one was broken.
Gibbs' eye twitched, his gut tightening with a wave of dark anger.
The guy guarding the door entered the observation room. "Listen, you can't interrupt them."
Gibbs looked at the operative. He admitted to himself, silently, that he felt a touch of pride at the fact his glare made the operative pause. "Watch me."
Still watching the operative, Gibbs banged a fist against the glass three times.
The shouting in Interrogation came to a stop. The operative in the observation room let out a slow sigh, bowing his head slightly.
And Smith's cold gaze went to the window.
The last one was something Gibbs felt instead of saw or heard. But he knew when someone was watching him, and right then—just after interrupting the CIA's questioning—he felt Smith looking right through the two-way mirror and right to the back of his head.
"Take a break," Smith said. "I'll be right back."
"This won't go well," the SOG guy said.
"No. It won't."
A moment later, Smith opened appeared at the observation room door, looking controlled but furious. He stepped inside. "Frank, take a walk," he said to the SOG operative.
Frank left without a word, leaving Smith and Gibbs alone. They spent the first few moments staring at one another, glaring in their own way. Smith with cool anger. Gibbs with fire.
"What do you think you're doing, Agent Gibbs?"
"What am I doing? You've turned my Interrogation room into a torture chamber!"
"The enhanced Interrogation room is not yours, Agent Gibbs. Nor, for the moment, is it NCIS's. I have taken it under my supervision for the time being."
"NCIS is not one of your black sites," Gibbs thundered, pointing to the bloodied Russian on the other side of the window, who had slumped in his chair, breathing heavily. "And that is not one of the terrorist financiers you make a habit of grabbing off the street!"
"He terrorized you enough, Agent Gibbs," Smith said, unfazed. "We also believe he is withholding intelligence vital to our investigation."
"That isn't the way to get it. Now, nothing you get from him will hold up in court."
"Did I give the impression it needed to?"
A part of Gibbs strained. Cried out to be released. Unchained. He held it back, just, and settled for a snarl. "This is a joint investigation! Investigation! Not a SAC kill mission!"
"And the CIA is in the lead. I make these calls, not you, Agent Gibbs."
"I might have something to say about that."
Gibbs glanced to the door, and there Vance stood. Calm. Collected. But with eyes blazing with fury as he looked from Smith to the Interrogation room window. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing in my building, Agent Smith?"
"Director Vance, I don—"
"Don't say you can make decisions without my input," Vance cut in, voice hard as granite. Eyes snapping back to Smith with a dark fury. "And don't interrupt me again. Not in NCIS. Not when I'm fifty yards from the desks you've claimed."
"Director, the CIA—"
"What did I say about interrupting? The CIA doesn't get to do whatever it wants just because it butted its unfriendly head into a domestic investigation. You said this was a joint investigation, Smith, but funny enough, I can't seem to get a hold of your boss. And, as I tried to say before, unless that changes you're a guest here. And guests obey the rules of the house. Am I clear on that?"
Gibbs saw Smith's reaction. Saw the flash of rage in his cold eyes. Saw the way he looked at Vance like he was an obstacle instead of a figure of authority. He hid it behind the mask he'd worn since walking into NCIS Headquarters. "Noted, Director," he said, blankly. "Nonetheless, the man in that room does have connections to the Russian mafia, and did not storm your Agent's home just as Ziva David arrived at his door through sheer coincidence. There are no coincidences. Isn't that right, Agent Gibbs?"
Gibbs' eye twitched, though he did admit the man was correct; the Russsian mob knew something at the least. But this wasn't the way to get it. "Doesn't matter what I think," he said, then indicated Leon with a nod. "Matters what he says."
"And it doesn't matter what I say," Vance said, "because you, Smith, just ruined any testimony we could have gotten from our resident hitman."
Smith shook his head, his mask slipping just a hair. Displaying the disdain Gibbs could see in his eyes. "You say that like it will matter. Perhaps you've forgotten, Director, but we are on a clock. I will not jeopardize this opportunity for the sake of a single conviction."
Gibbs' frown deepened. "What opportunity?"
"You aren't read in. Rest assured, the individual expecting a flash drive to be delivered to the Red Line at Union isn't one we've had many chances to beat. This is one. Sometimes, to do something good, you have to stomach something bad."
"The CIA has its way of doing things, and we have ours. Ours is legal," Vance said. "And while you're in my house, you're going to do things legally. Both in this building and outside it. Or you and I are going to have problems. I'm sure you've read my file. You should know I'm not a good enemy to have."
For the first time, Gibbs saw Smith pause. Consider. Reevaluate. He stared at Vance, and Leon stared back, as fiery as Smith was cold.
Finally, Smith nodded. "Very well. But let it be known I don't think this is a wise move. Our opponent will not hesitate to use any method to gain an edge. We need to do the same."
"Noted," Vance said. "Perhaps we can find other ways to bend the rules. If, maybe, you shared what you seem to know about Death?"
Smith moved to the door. "I will ensure our unnamed hitman is secured."
He left without acknowledging Leon's request.
"Like I said," Vance said, turning back to Gibbs. "Eel."
Before he could grunt a reply, Gibbs' phone rang. Vance must have hung up when he heard what was happening.
Fishing the phone from his pocket, he answered. "Gibbs."
"You sitting down, Gibbs?"
That didn't sound good. "Don't have the time, Fornell. What did you find?"
"Any of our friends at the CIA around you?"
Gibbs' gut clenched. That wasn't a promising request. He looked back at the Interrogation room window, where Smith was just beginning to pull his people from the room. "Yeah."
"Get somewhere where they aren't. Call me back."
The line went dead, but Gibbs kept his phone to his ear, slow to respond. His gut was yelling at him. Telling him something was off.
That Fornell didn't have good news.
"Gibbs?"
"Abby," Gibbs said, meeting Vance's eyes, knowing he'd see the message Gibbs left in them. "Says she's got something for us."
Vance paused, then nodded. "Lead the way."
Gibbs returned to the Bullpen, walking right by NCIS and CIA Agents alike, then entered the elevator he usually took to Abby's lab.
Vance entered behind him, hit the button for the floor below, then flipped off the power, sending them both into darkness. "What's going on, Gibbs?"
"Don't know yet. One sec." Gibbs got his phone out and called Tobias back.
Fornell answered on the first ring. "You alone this time?"
"Not alone. Got Vance with me."
"Good. Put your phone on speaker. He'll need to hear this."
Gibbs did. "We're here, Fornell."
"Agent Gibbs. This is Director Summers of the FBI," said a new voice, deeper than Fornell's, with a faint touch of a Brooklyn accent.
Vance looked puzzled. Angry, too. "Jim? I've been trying to reach you."
"I know that now, Leon. But that's secondary. I understand you have one Agent Smith of the CIA in your building."
"Yes, sir," Gibbs said.
"I also understand he's taken over your investigation."
"More than that," Vance said. "He used our Interrogation room to go against UNCAT."
There was silence on the line. Gibbs could almost feel Fornell looking at Summers, continuing whatever conversation they'd had before they called.
After a few seconds, Summers said, "As unfortunate as that is, I need you both to promise me something before I go on."
"And what do you need us to promise, Jim?" Vance asked.
"To be covert."
Leon and Gibbs shared a quick look. In that instant, Gibbs knew Vance was thinking the same thing he was.
Not. Good.
"You got our word," Vance said. "What's all this about?"
"As Director of the FBI, my clearance is just about as high as it goes. Higher than yours, Leon, much as you don't want to hear that. Given how we've often worked with the CIA, that means I know more about what's going on at Langley than just about anyone outside that building. Including the Who's Who of SAC."
"Your point, Jim?"
Summers paused again. Longer this time, and Gibbs' gut resumed its yelling.
"Meaning I know all of their senior field agents. All their coordinators. And the only Smith I know working for them is a five-eight analyst who probably hasn't left the building in half a year."
Gibbs' whole world came to a halt.
"More than that, until Tobias came stomping into my office, this is the first I've heard of any CIA involvement in our investigation. I don't know who's in your building, Leon. But whoever it is, I don't know him. And he doesn't have Cabinet authority."
"You're dealing with an imposter, Gibbs." Fornell's voice. Far away. Distant. Haunted. "And that imposter has a combat team in your living room."
I wasn't planning on the chapter ending here, or for it to go the route of focusing so much on Smith instead of the incoming meeting Death wants, but it did. I hope it didn't feel too rushed. But if it was, please let me know.
Alright, so now to stuff not related at all to the story.
Here's the summary: I'm not okay.
Well, I am. But I'm not. Creatively, anyway. I haven't been for about three years. Yes, it took me until this summer to let myself see that. And yes, I know it's been glaringly apparent since I update so infrequently. But it's true.
I'm not exactly sure what, specifically, started this creative plague in my mind. I remember being productive back then, writing updates to this story every three or four months, with the larger Transformers stories I write taking a little longer. I remember having a very productive start to September of '17, and updating three stories at the same time.
Then... I just stopped.
My creative mind broke apart, and it hasn't gotten itself back together. Even my novel and other original projects, which are the main priority in my creative pursuits just... didn't move. I forced everything forward at a snail's pace, writing out the things I wanted to but taking two or three times as long to get to them. I always said I didn't have the time for writing like I wanted to, but COVID has made me realize that's been a comforting lie I've been telling myself; the problem lies square with me. With my creativity and my muse.
It's not better, either. Even as I type these words, I know I am not the writer I can be. I know I am still falling prey to the same creative woe that has sucked my hobby away from me for literally years. All I can offer to you, my readers, is my apology that it took me this long to admit to myself that I have a problem.
But, there are hints I am beginning to get over this creative hump. My novel - which I have started, stopped, or scrapped nearly half a dozen times since I decided to pursue creative writing as an eventual career path - has, for the first time, a completed draft. And, at the risk of sounding arrogant, it's got a lot of potential. This update was mostly written over the summer, as I began the long process of digging into why I am the problem with my writing. An update to another of my stories was written in the same timeframe. I was planning on updating a third story as well, just so I can say all of this once and move on, but Fate Calls is a monster, both in its current complexity and the sheer amount of characters and subplots I need to keep track of; it's update isn't ready, and I figured anyone who reads this has waited plenty long enough for another chapter.
So, I'm seeing signs I am moving in the right direction, and part of that direction is writing what I feel like writing in the moment, even if it takes me away from the projects I want to write. My muse is strange, what can I say. Obviously, I have a ways to go, but progress is progress. I hope you understand that I have not been trying to be lazy, or just don't care. I really do. I just need to keep working through the block I created for myself.
Thank you for coming to my TED talk.
No credit song, 'cause I no longer think this story needs them. If any of you actually listened to my suggestions, please let me know and I might reconsider.
Thank you all for reading, and may you stay safe, healthy, and happy.
See you soon.