CHAPTER 2

Out for Blood

'Cause I'm not fine at all
No, I'm really not fine at all
Tell me this is just a dream
'Cause I'm really not fine at all.
~ Amnesia lyrics by 5 Seconds of Summer

The early morning sun was hot on Tony's head as he strolled along one side of the grand plaza in Mérida. He carefully skirted the vendors' stands set up haphazardly in the open-air mercado. The merchants' tables were overflowing with fresh fruit and vegetables, and there was a wide variety of local cuisine available, much of it being cooked right on the spot. The rich aroma of tamales and castacan was making his mouth water, but right now Tony had more important things on his mind than eating.

He hadn't had any trouble locating Alejandro Rivera. The man was as flamboyant as ever, flirting and laughing with the ladies as he ambled along; it was as if he hadn't a care in the world. Rivera shook the hands of several men, his manner more like that of a slick politician making nice with constituents than a high-ranking member of the Mexican government.

The government agency Rivera worked for was tasked with supporting the international drug task force in an effort to break up the widespread and brutal drug cartels. The task force may have been beyond reproach, but Rivera was as corrupt as they came, and, as Gibbs had recently discovered, his very own sister was the head of the Reynosa cartel.

"Sorta like putting a hungry cat in with the canaries," Gibbs had said a few days ago upon his return from Mexico, where he'd been looking for Mike Franks. Instead of finding Franks, either alive or dead, Gibbs had been kidnapped and delivered to Paloma's hacienda in western Mexico.

Gibbs had told Tony that Paloma had let him go only because she believed he would bend to her rule. That was after she had blatantly threatened to go to Pennsylvania and shoot his dad in the head, just as Gibbs had done to her father, all those years ago. "She wants someone in DC who can act as her eyes and ears," he had said with a shrug.

Tony had snorted. "Guess she didn't read up on who she was dealing with first, Boss."

As soon as Gibbs returned from Mexico, he arranged for the State Police to station two men to protect Jackson Gibbs until an NCIS protective detail could be arranged. Jackson had, as expected, groused about how unnecessary it all was, and he and Gibbs had exchanged words. But Gibbs wasn't going to budge. He'd warned his father how dangerous this woman was, and that he needed to take this threat seriously. Jackson had begrudgingly agreed, so long as the police didn't interfere in his day-to-day activities.

They knew by now that the Reynosa cartel was working its way up the Eastern seaboard, setting up a drug network and organizing local dealers to distribute their product. Gibbs was sure Paloma was in the United States, but based upon new intel and the word of a confidential informant, Vance was convinced she was south of the border, and was about to meet with her brother and some high-up government officials in Mérida.

And that was why Tony had been sent to this small city on the tip of the Yucatan, and was standing to one side of the town's grand plaza currently watching Rivera. McGee had been checking everything from hotel guests to passenger lists on commercial flights to Mérida, but there had been no red flags. "Either they're lying low, or there is no meeting," McGee had said when Tony had called him upon arrival.

Tony was sitting at a sidewalk café near his hotel, drinking some excellent coffee with his breakfast of a freshly baked pastry, watching locals and tourists passing by. "Which is why I'm here to keep an eye on Rivera, follow him and verify this meeting, McGee. I'll find out soon enough if this is a red herring."

"Be careful, Tony. I mean… you don't have any backup," McGee had said.

"Why, you do care," Tony had teased, saying he'd report back as soon as he knew anything.

Although Vance was adamant he was there only to observe, Tony had not come unarmed. He carried a gun. Plus a knife. And a backup weapon. Mexican customs hadn't discovered them, hidden under a lead-lined false bottom in his carry-on bag. Although Tony planned to follow the director's instructions, there was always the possibility he'd get caught in the middle of some sort of local trouble and he wasn't about to get shot or kidnapped, especially not by the Reynosa cartel.

He'd booked into his hotel at dawn – his flight had arrived at the Mérida Airport at 0530 – and although he expected to wrap this up and be back in DC that evening, he liked to have a base of operations. After breakfast Tony went back to his room only long enough to check his weapons. When a church bell rang once to announce it was 9:30 a.m., he walked casually out of the hotel and made his way to the plaza.

• • • • •

It was a probie mistake. He was concentrating so hard on watching Rivera that he wasn't paying enough attention to his surroundings. A hard shove and Tony was driven into a deeply recessed doorway, and just as his gun cleared its holster, he recognized his attacker as none other than Mike Franks.

"Hola," Franks said with a sneer.

"Franks. You're alive. We were wondering if we'd find the rest of you. Gibbs thought you'd been fed to the fishes." Tony willed his rapidly beating heart to slow down, and offered the man a grin.

Franks just snorted. "What's your assignment here?"

"Director's orders... observe and report." Tony glanced down at Franks' hand. It was bound in a heavy bandage, dark with blood. Even with the bulky wrapping, it was obvious he was missing his trigger finger. Must have hurt like a bitch.

"I'll take it from here, probie. I can pull the trigger with my thumb," Franks said defensively.

"Out for blood, are you?"

Scowling, Franks growled, "They went after my family. If that little cockroach and his sister aren't stopped, they'll be after yours, too."

"There's no sign of Paloma being here," Tony said quickly.

"That bitch? Whoever told you she's down here is wrong. It's not her I'm planning on dealing with today." Franks leaned in close to Tony and growled, "She's got killing on her mind. Going after anyone Gibbs cares about. She plans on picking off all his people, one by one. You'd better watch your back, sonny."

Before Tony could retort, Franks was gone, disappeared into the crowd. Tony took a deep breath and followed, and a few moments later he heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, then screams and more shooting. By the time Tony arrived at the scene, Franks was clutching his shoulder, several people were down, shoppers from the looks of things, and Rivera was jumping into a large black SUV. Gunmen were shooting from the safety of their armored car, but despite being hurt, Franks continued blasting at Rivera and his men.

Tony got off a few rounds of cover fire and then ran out and grabbed Franks. He pulled him into a deep doorway under the arcade. Franks, still fired up and out for blood, struggled to get free. He slipped and fell, bringing Tony down with him. Tony hit his head on the tiled walkway hard enough to see stars.

The next thing he knew, Franks was slapping his face and saying urgently, "Wake the fuck up, cowboy."

"What?" Tony sat up and moaned, "My head…" He unsteadily got to his feet, raising his weapon, prepared to take down Rivera's men, but the black car was speeding away.

"They're gone," Franks groused. He was holding his shoulder, blood welling between his fingers. "We need to scram. Federales will come sniffin' around any minute. You head straight for the airport and get the hell out of Mexico."

"What about you?" Tony asked, shaking his head to clear it. Instead of helping, it made him dizzy and sick.

"…sisters will patch me up…"

Tony leaned to one side and threw up. Fuck, just what he needed – a concussion. Wiping his mouth, Tony straightened up, but when he turned to speak to Franks, he was nowhere to be seen.

• • • • •

Tony made his way back to his hotel, the Mirador, on foot. His arm was bleeding heavily, and he could feel blood trickling down the back of his neck. The few people who passed him averted their gaze; they knew enough not to get involved. It wasn't far to the hotel, but by the time Tony got there, he was hot and sweaty, and glad he had made it.

The lobby was empty except for the guy behind the desk, and he didn't even look up. Tony rode the old cage elevator up to the third floor, and picked up a bucket of ice from a machine at the end of the hall. Once in his room, he checked out his injured arm. It was no surprise it needed immediate attention. It looked like the bullet had plowed through his deltoid, leaving a deep trough behind, and it was hurting like a bitch. His short-sleeve shirt was soaked in blood, and a crimson stream was steadily making its way down his arm and dripping from his fingers.

One thing Tony was good at was packing for all contingencies. He pulled a compact med-kit out of his bag and proceeded to deal with the ugly gash in his upper arm. It looked like he might have been hit with a ricochet. Not surprising, considering the heavy fire Alejandro Rivera's men had laid down. He could still smell the gunpowder and hear the frantic people screaming and diving for cover as bullets thudded into the stucco buildings, with pottery and glass and fruit from the vendor's stands exploding into a million pieces around them.

Silently thanking Ducky for providing him with a first-aid kit intended for such an emergency, Tony applied quick-clot powder on his wound, then gauze and a pressure bandage to hold it all together. He worked fast, afraid the federales would come around asking questions. After using his bloody shirt to clean off the worst of the blood, he tossed it in the trash. After having a quick wash, donning a fresh shirt and drinking a bottle of water, Tony felt sore and exhausted but was satisfied he didn't need a hospital.

Wrapping the ice in a wet towel, he held it to the back of his head. It brought some welcome relief. Tony sighed. He had to call Director Vance, and wasn't looking forward to that conversation.

Using his scrambler phone, he called Vance's secure number. "There was no sign of the woman, and no meeting. No out-of-towners. No gifts. No boats. It was a loud party instead," Tony reported. Even though the phone was secure, neither he nor Vance used any names or locations during their brief conversation. Tony admitted he was "not happy but I'll be good," a euphemism for being injured but going to survive. Vance ordered him to take the first flight home.

Tony looked at his holstered Sig lying on the bed. He'd never get it through airport security if he wore it, and flashing his NCIS ID wasn't going to convince anyone to allow him to carry it on the plane. In the end, he decided to place both the Sig and his backup, which was usually strapped to his right ankle, in his canvas and leather weekender bag. There was a shallow hidden compartment in the bottom of the bag, just big enough for his weapons – and impenetrable to airport scanners. Nobody was going to figure out he had a knife in his belt, so he wore that.

After carefully pulling on a loose linen jacket, Tony picked up his bag, went down to the lobby and checked out. He took a cab waiting out front and told the driver he wanted to go to the airport, rápido. As the driver pulled away from the curb, Tony looked back, to see two uniformed policemen entering the hotel he had just left. He hoped the $100 tip he'd slipped to the clerk would buy him enough time to get out of the country.

• • • • •

"Nosotros estamos aqui, señor," the taxi driver said as he pulled up to the curb at the entrance of the Mérida Airport.

Tony fished in his pocket and asked, "¿Cuanto es lo justo?"

The driver shrugged and held out his hand. "Forty American."

Even though the price was more than the usual rate, Tony forked over the cash and stepped out of the cab and into the hot, humid Mexican sunshine. He closed his eyes and tamped down a feeling of nausea. God, his head was killing him, and his left arm was throbbing to the tempo of his heartbeat.

With his canvas weekender bag in hand, he entered the airport and made his way to the flight information board. It was considerably cooler inside the terminal, and there weren't many travelers at this time of day.

There were several outbound flights to the US scheduled, but what should have been a four-hour flight to DC had two stops, Miami and Atlanta, and was posted at a travel time of nine hours. The other choices were even longer. The best flight going to DC had a stopover in Houston, of all places, and left in twenty minutes. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath. No way did he want to deal with changing planes, layovers and God knows what kind of delays, not with his present injuries.

Tony stood in front of the flight board, considering his options. Getting back on US soil was a priority, and he decided that if getting the hell out of Mexico meant flying to Houston, then that's what he'd have to do.

He thought he should call Gibbs, and as soon as he found a quiet spot in a corner of the terminal, he hit speed dial. When Gibbs answered with a gruff, "Not a good time, DiNozzo," Tony realized his boss was in his car. From the sound of horns and the revving of the engine, he deduced Gibbs was driving fast.

"I'm heading home now," Tony said loudly, as the line wasn't very good.

"She wasn't there," Gibbs shouted back.

"No, she wasn't! It was a trap," Tony replied.

"I know she wasn't." Gibbs asked, "You all right?"

"I'm fine, but your old buddy caught a cold," Tony said, aware the line wasn't secure. It felt like they were talking at cross-purposes.

Gibbs asked, "He was there? Is he with you now?"

Tony had a feeling Gibbs had a lead on Paloma's whereabouts, but he seemed more concerned over Mike Franks. "No, he went his own way. He said he made sure his family was safe first. Rule 44! Look, I'm at the airport, so should be landing around twenty-hundred," Tony said, making a guess.

"I'm heading to - and don't know -"

"Gibbs, you're breaking up! Say again."

"She was there and -shot the place up and -," Gibbs said, his voice cutting in and out.

Tony responded, "Who was where?" but the line went dead. "Damn!" Gibbs must have meant Paloma. But shooting? That did not sound good. And where was Gibbs heading, to a crime scene? He'd sounded harried, not something Tony had ever heard before. Concerned, Tony dialed McGee, but it went to voicemail. He left a brief message, and then tried Abby, but he couldn't get through to her or to any of several numbers he tried. Damn, damn, damn! Wishing like hell there was a faster way to get to DC other than flying halfway across the country – and in the wrong direction – Tony hurried to buy his ticket.

He was just leaving the airline's counter with his ticket in hand when a man called out from behind him, "Tony! Tony DiNozzo, is that you?"

Alarmed, Tony turned and…

.

.

.

.

…It was raining, hard. And it was cold. And dark. He was standing in the rain on a sidewalk, soaked to the skin, staring at the house before him. The porch light was on, and some of the windows were bright, indicating someone was home.

Something was wrong, he thought. This wasn't right. He was at the airport in Mexico, about to board a flight. Wasn't he?

Except...he wasn't in Mexico.

It was too cold and too dark; it smelled like...Washington, sounded like it too, with the swish of cars traversing a nearby rain-slick road.

He blinked the rain out of his eyes, and it slowly dawned on him this wasn't just anyone's house. He was outside Gibbs' house. What the hell? A few seconds ago he was in Mérida, sweating in the heat, his mind full of flights and planning how to get home, and now, in a heartbeat, he was 1500 miles away, his bag clenched in his cold fingers.

It made no sense, and the moment he tried to figure out what the fuck was going on, a severe headache hit him with no warning. His eyes slammed closed at the intense pain. He stood there swaying, thinking, 'Shit, I'm too young to have a stroke.'

As quickly as the pain had come, it receded, and Tony slowly opened his eyes. It was still raining, and he was still standing on the sidewalk in front of Gibbs' house. He walked up the path towards the front door, drawn to the light, and as he did so, without warning, a man came out of the darkness and grabbed his arm. Instinctively, Tony raised his arm – his good one – and stepped aside, breaking the unwarranted hold.

"Hey, DiNozzo! Take it easy!" The man, dressed in rain gear and a ball cap, raised his voice to be heard over the rain. "Man, you're lucky I recognized you. What're you doing out here? Tony… You okay?"

A second man appeared and Tony realized he knew both of them: they were NCIS agents, guys usually assigned to protective detail. He tried to ask them what was going on, and why was he standing in the rain, but he couldn't make the words come out of his mouth.

The second man was on his comm. "It's Dailey, out front. DiNozzo just walked up… No clue. You want him to…?"

The front door opened and Gibbs emerged. "DiNozzo, get the hell in here," he said loudly. He had an angry expression but he sounded worried.

"Gibbs?" Tony managed to ask, as Gibbs met him halfway. Gibbs' strong arm went around his waist, urging him up the steps and into the house. Gibbs told the agents he'd take care of things. That sounded good, Gibbs taking care of him, Tony thought, because he sure as hell didn't feel as though he was capable of doing it himself.

• • • • •