CHAPTER 7

The Antidote

Allow yourself to see what you don't allow yourself to see.
~ Milton Erickson

They had only just stepped in the door when McGee phoned. "We got permission to search the mansion on 16th Street, Boss, but there was no sign of Paloma. Somebody must have called ahead and warned Alejandro; he was gone by the time we got here. He left his luggage in his room, but they didn't let us touch anything." He also reported that the two other passengers on the jet, the South Americans, had apparently completed their business with Alejandro, and had flown to Las Vegas.

Gibbs wasn't concerned with them. He gave instructions for McGee and Ziva to work with the DEA and FBI to locate Paloma Reynosa. "I want her found, now!"

• • • • •

Tony joined Jackson for coffee and a slice of pie. Talking with the older man lightened his spirits significantly. Jackson entertained Tony with his observations about his trip to the Museum of the Navy earlier that day. It sounded like he'd really enjoyed himself, especially as Gibbs had arranged for one of the museum's historians to give his dad a personal tour.

Meanwhile, Gibbs was on the phone with everyone from Director Vance to FBI Agent Fornell, as well as Deputy Administrator Beacon of the DEA. Minutes after he had hung up and made himself a fresh pot of coffee, Beacon called him back.

"They what? Did you confirm…?" Gibbs pulled out his small notebook and jotted down an address. "On my way."

Tony quickly rose from the kitchen table. "What is it, Boss?" Whatever the DEA agent had related to Gibbs, it was bad, judging from his reaction.

"Paloma and her brother, and her two flunkies, shot up an SUV near Rock Creek Park. The driver of the SUV was identified as Chris Landry. The description from witnesses of his passenger fits Senator Landry. Looks like they were ambushed leaving the senator's condo on Colorado Avenue."

"Did they…?"

"Landry drove off, and got away, after exchanging shots with the Mexicans," Gibbs said. "There's a BOLO out on them, as well as on Paloma and her crew."

"Did Chris get hurt? The senator?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"Didn't anyone check to see if Senator Landry was at his condo earlier?" Tony demanded.

"The FBI did and it was empty. He must have gone back after we verified he wasn't there," Gibbs said.

"Sounds like something Chris would think up. Look, I'm coming with you," Tony said. He not only wanted to be in on this investigation, but this could be a way of avoiding being hypnotized. To tell the truth, he was having serious misgivings about going through with it.

Gibbs put out a hand to stop him. "Oh no, you stay here. You've done enough today. You seem to forget you have a concussion, and you've had two blackouts in as many days!"

Jackson, watching them from where he sat at the table, nodded in agreement. "Son, you really shouldn't go gallivanting around in your state. That Paloma is a force to be reckoned with."

Tony raised hands in the air. "I have a right to be part of this!" He turned to Gibbs and wheedled, "I need to know what's going on! And the one today wasn't really a blackout, more like sleepwalking. It was nothing!"

Gibbs stepped close to Tony and said in a low, terse voice, "If I hear one more protest out of you, or if you're not still here when I get back, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions."

"But…"

"I'll be back in a couple of hours. Ducky should be here by then, and we're going to do the damned hypnosis."

"But…"

Gibbs clasped the back of Tony's neck and said, "We're going to get your memory back. Understand? Sit and stay."

"All right, geez. I'm not a dog, you know." Tony rolled his eyes and took his seat at the table once again. "Love you, too, Boss," he called after Gibbs' departing figure.

After Gibbs had gone, Jackson smirked at Tony. "My boy must really like you, son. He doesn't get all worked up over much of anything, so when he gets this riled up, must be about something special… Just sayin'."

Tony stood with a huff, not sure whether to be affronted or pleased. "I'm going upstairs for a while. And… just for the record, I really like him, too." As he made his way up to his bedroom, he could hear Jackson chuckling in the kitchen.

• • • • •

Tony felt refreshed after sleeping a couple of hours that afternoon, and when he went downstairs, he found that Ducky had arrived, and was chatting with Jackson.

"Ah, there you are, Anthony. I have the antidote to the PCP-R with me," Ducky said with a smile.

Tony grunted, not looking forward to being injected with a concoction Abby had put together, or being hypnotized.

After exchanging pleasantries with Ducky, Jackson went to his room to rest his eyes.

A couple of minutes later, Gibbs arrived. He had come straight from the scene of the shooting with little new information. "McGee and Ziva are working with the DEA and other agencies to find the Mexicans and the Landrys. They can't hide forever. After I twisted their arm a little, the CIA admitted that Raymondo Cruz was working with the Reynosa cartel, trafficking drugs, but they hadn't been able to catch him red-handed. No love lost there."

Tony asked, "You sure we shouldn't go back to the Yard, Boss? With the two of us working with Ziva and McGee, I'll bet we could run Paloma to ground in record time."

"What I want is for you to sit in this chair, DiNozzo," Gibbs replied, indicating the big easy chair in the living room. "Don't keep Ducky waiting."

With a big sigh, Tony complied.

"Lie back and relax, Anthony. Remember you're in a safe place," Ducky assured him.

Looking at him sideways, Tony replied, "I don't know about safe. You seem to forget we're all on a hit list."

Opening a plastic box decorated with little stickers of skulls, courtesy of Abby, the ME withdrew a syringe and a blue nitrile tourniquet. "Then remember what fine agents you are and that you are skilled with firearms and can protect not only yourselves, but others as well."

"Yeah, well, it seems like I have a bit of a problem with remembering, but I'll try," Tony said sarcastically, averting his gaze as Ducky tied the tourniquet around his right arm.

Gibbs merely said, "DiNozzo, relax," and Tony did as he was told, reclining in the easy chair that Gibbs usually sat in.

"Wow, this is comfy. Like being hugged," he said with a grin. "I wouldn't mind one like this at my place. My birthday is coming up, the big four-oh. Not that I'm asking you to get me one or anything. I'd buy it myself, of course, and…"

Gibbs pulled up a chair and sat beside Tony and assured him, "Hey, it'll be alright."

"I know," Tony replied, unsure how any of this could be called 'alright.' He hated not being able to remember what he'd done – or what may have been done to him – during those missing hours, but now he was thinking maybe knowing might be worse. "It's just that… I'm not sure I want to know."

"We need to know," Gibbs said.

Tony shrugged. "If Ducky's any good at this, we will."

Ducky smoothly inserted the fine needle into Tony's vein, depressed the plunger and injected him with the antidote Abby had created. "I assure you, even before I studied under one of Europe's greatest hypnotists, Dr. Hippoloti Brown – who was quite advanced in age at the time – I was entertaining my fellow university students with my skills as a hypnotist. It was all for fun, but I recall, at one party, things got a wee bit out of hand…"

Gibbs cut in, "Ducky… Let's get this done before we're old and senile."

"We need to wait a few minutes for the antidote to start working," Ducky said. After he removed the tourniquet and placed both it and the empty syringe back in the box, he took a seat directly in front of Tony.

Tony glanced at Gibbs. "You're going to stay?"

"I'm not leaving," Gibbs assured him.

Tony nodded and turned his attention to Ducky. Swallowing nervously, he asked, "What if this doesn't work? I might not remember anything and…"

"Then we'll try something else," Gibbs said. "And we're still investigating. We'll uncover the facts."

"Of course." Tony told himself he was with friends, people he trusted. If he couldn't remember what had happened, it wasn't the end of the world. Gibbs gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Meeting his eyes, Tony managed a small smile, and Gibbs gave a nod of approval.

"Any trouble breathing? Do you feel unusually hot?" Ducky asked, while taking Tony's blood pressure.

"No. Why? Am I supposed to feel hot? What constitutes 'unusual'?" Tony asked, trying to tamp down a rising panic, sweat breaking out on his brow.

"You look a little flushed, but your vitals are close to normal. With no adverse reaction to the antidote, I believe we can safely progress," Ducky told him. "Abby said that the chemical reaction would start immediately. If you are ready?"

"I'm ready as I'll ever be," Tony said, just wanting to get this over with.

Ducky cleared his throat and gently intoned, "First, close your eyes and relax. Breathe deeply and evenly. In, out, in and out. That's good. Now relax your shoulders, and then your arms and your hands. And now your fingers. That's it." Ducky continued to lead Tony into a state of deep relaxation, and after a while he said gently, "Open your eyes. You shall remain in a relaxed state. That's good. Remember that we are here and everything is fine. No matter what you see, you are here, safe with us. Do you understand?"

Tony, who felt as though he was floating in a strange kind of marshmallow limbo, mumbled, "Yeah. Understand."

"Think back to when you were in Mexico. Picture you are being driven to the airport. The roads are busy, the sun bright."

"I'm in a taxi, trying to call McGee. Finally, he picks up. I'm telling him I'm about to catch a flight, but the reception's bad, and the call's dropped. Now we're pulling up at the airport," Tony said quietly. It was strange, like being in a dream. He could feel the heat of the sun on the back of his neck as he got out of the cab and walked into the terminal, carrying his bag in his right hand. "It's as hot as a sauna. Nice inside though. Must have the AC cranking."

Ducky suggested, "You are looking into the flights back home…"

Tony frowned. "No direct flights. Gotta get outta Dodge… director said so. Shit, I'm gonna have to fly to Houston. Nothing going east… what a pain."

"You head for the ticket counter," Ducky said.

"Yeah. Only… someone's calling my name." Tony shook his head.

Ducky prompted, "Who is it?"

Tony couldn't see who it was; it was like his mind refused to see. He raised one hand to his eyes. He didn't want to see this.

Gibbs asked, "Who is it, Tony?"

A face appears, smiling, greeting him like an old buddy. He knows who this is. All he has to do is say the name.

Tony lowers his hand from his eyes, and standing right in front of him in the airport is a smiling man who seems genuinely happy to see him.

It's hard to do, but Tony manages to say, "It's Chris. Chris Landry. Haven't seen him in years."

"He's a friend," Ducky said soothingly.

Tony smiled. "College. He was one of the smart kids. Aced every test, never had to study." But for all his brains, Chris could be incredibly stupid at times; made poor choices, some really bad ones. "He was in the Navy, seven years, then an EMT in New York. Loved the job, only… he started using… heroin. Went downhill so fast."

"He's an addict?" Gibbs asked.

Tony said slowly, "I heard he kicked the habit. He looks good now."

Ducky said encouragingly, "You are doing very well, Anthony. Do you recall what happened next?"

• • • • •

"Hey, Tony! Tony DiNozzo! Of all the places…" Before Tony can respond, Chris is hugging him and patting him on the back.

Looking his old friend over, Tony exclaims, "Man, haven't seen you in…. how long? What's with the hair?" Chris is unshaven, his long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. He is wearing torn jeans, an old Ramones T-shirt and huarache sandals that have seen better days, but his eyes are clear and his smile is honest and happy. He looks just like he used to, back when they were young men starting out, full of themselves and acting like the world was their playground.

"All part of the act," Chris says with a casual laugh. "But hey, it's been way too long. What're you up to, man? You still a detective? Last time we talked you were in Philly, weren't you?"

"Not any more. I moved on," Tony says. Chris might be an old friend, but Tony has a policy not to reveal that he works for NCIS unless it's necessary.

"So you finally got smart and moved to the private sector?" Chris asks.

Tony just smiles and shrugs, letting Chris think he was doing private security work or something along those lines. "How're things going with you?"

"Got married. Got divorced. Twice. You know how it goes."

"Divorces can be rough. Speaking from my father's experience, not my own. Never tried it, myself." Came close a time or two though.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't cut out to be a husband." Chris gives a dismissive shrug and looks at Tony with interest. "You're on vacation down here?"

"No, business. Checking out some competitors for my boss," Tony replies vaguely. "How's your father doing? I saw him interviewed on TV a few months ago."

"He's a senator now. Ohio, of course. You should come and say hi."

"He's here?"

"Sure is. Dad was invited to an agricultural trade talk about how soybeans will change the world. I got roped into coming down here with him, but it's boring as shit. We're flying to DC. In fact, I should board the plane soon. Too bad we don't have time to… Hey, you want to come back with us?" Chris asks. "I could do with a friendly face. You are flying to el Norte, aren't you?"

"That's my plan. You're not flying commercial?"

"Hell, no! We have a fucking big jet." It turns out that Senator Landry has use of a Global 6000, and is flying home with a handful of what Chris calls "Dad's new soybean buddies." Tony is welcome to join them. They'll arrive at Reagan in a fraction of the time it would take on a commercial flight.

"That would be great," Tony says, accepting the generous invitation.

They walk to the far end of the concourse, and they board the private jet after a cursory check by an airport official who knows Chris by name. Tony catches Chris slipping the man a folded greenback. The man doesn't bother to look through their bags. He wonders if the official is being paid to look the other way while Chris carries some kind of contraband onto the aircraft. He hopes it isn't drugs.

"Wow, this is nice," Tony exclaims when he follows Chris onto the jet. The Global is extra wide and, according to Chris, "accommodates 12, plus the two pilots." Tony observes it has comfortable-looking seats with plenty of legroom, plus a well-stocked bar and small galley. What Tony likes is the headroom, which is just enough to accommodate his height.

"I wouldn't mind having one of these on call," Tony says in approval as he takes a look around.

"Don't get too fucking excited, it's on loan," Chris replies, amused by Tony's enthusiasm.

There is only one other person aboard, a tall white-haired man wearing trousers and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Tony immediately recognizes him as Chris' father, Senator Matt Landry. When he was younger, he'd had a bit of a crush on Senator Landry – although he'd been a state representative back then. He is still very good looking, and if Tony had a type, it was mature, handsome, authoritative men with white hair.

"Hey Dad, look who I found wandering around."

The senator remembers Tony and greets him warmly. He shakes his hand, saying, "Of course you can fly with us. Why don't you boys sit in the back where you can make yourself comfortable?" He says with a hearty laugh, "My new friends can get a bit rowdy. We'll be up front – near the bar. We'll be getting ready for takeoff as soon as they get here."

Chris grabs a couple of bottles of water from the fridge in the galley and some bags of snacks, and they settle in the rear of the cabin, where it's partially secluded by privacy walls. The chairs swivel so he turns his seat to face Tony and pulls out a small table that was folded against the wall. "Drink this," he says, handing Tony a water.

Tony drinks half the bottle in one go, and gives a big groan of relief. "I needed that. Thanks."

Chris asks, "Are you okay? You look…"

"Handsome? Debonair? Smart?" Tony asks, mustering a charming smile. He isn't about to admit how much he feels like a dishrag, or that his arm is throbbing and his head is pounding.

With a snort, Chris says, "More like pale and ready to faint."

"C'mon, you know DiNozzos never faint!"

After casting a dubious look at him, Chris asks, "What's wrong with your arm?"

"It's nothing," Tony says, but after Chris gives a disappointed sigh, he decides to level with him. In a quiet voice, Tony tells his old friend how he got caught up in the shootout in the plaza. "I caught one in the arm, but I've taken care of it."

Chris is immediately concerned. "We heard about it but… did you get shot? Who did it?"

"I only got grazed," Tony says, shrugging it off. "Probably some local turf war."

"Hey, don't lie to me."

For a moment, Tony thinks Chris is calling him out on what was behind the gunfire in the middle of town, but then he realizes his friend is questioning his assessment of his injury. Tony admits he could do with some painkillers. "I've got some in my bag." He takes a double dose of ibuprofen and sits back with a sigh. "Can't thank you enough for letting me hitch a ride."

"Plenty of room. We only have a few passengers coming with us. Uh, Tony…"

"Hmmm?"

"You're bleeding," Chris points out. "There's a first aid kit up front."

Sure enough, there is a dark spot on the sleeve of his linen jacket, and it's growing larger by the second. Tony puts pressure on it with his right hand and convinces Chris to wait until they're in the air before doing any first aid on him. "It can wait. I get the feeling you miss being an EMT, and can't wait to get your hands on me," Tony teases.

"It seems a fucking lifetime ago."

"What're you doing now?"

Chris gives a heavy sigh. "Long story," he says, but doesn't explain.

"You live in DC?"

"Fuck no. My dad does. He loves it there, the parties, the schmoozing, all the backstabbing. Not me. I'm living in Jersey now."

"Jersey?"

"I manage a medical supply company, TrackMed. Beds, support equipment, some specialty items, and we do drug compounding on the side. We manufacture most of our products in Mexico. The owner won't step foot south of Trenton, so I come down to Mexico on a regular basis to check on quality control and put out any fires." He gives a self-effacing laugh. "You'd think they'd know better than to give the job to a fucking former drug addict, right?"

"You doing okay with that?" Tony asks cautiously.

Chris bites his lip, then says honestly, "When I hit bottom a couple of years ago, Dad got me into rehab – and I've been clean ever since. Every day's a struggle though."

There is a commotion at the passenger entry up front and several men entered the jet. Tony watches them with interest. The first man is slim, dark, and is wearing a black silk suit with a skinny tie. The way he sweeps the plane with his eyes made Tony think 'cop.' Only no cop could ever afford the thousand-dollar suit he is wearing. He leans towards Chris and asks, "Who's that?"

Sending a disinterested look towards the new passengers, Chris replies, "Raymondo. I think he puts Vaseline on his teeth. Watch… he's got the smoothest smile I've ever seen."

Sure enough, when the man smiles at Senator Landry, his lips slid back with unnatural ease. Tony makes Chris laugh by saying, "We should call him 'Slick.'"

"Not to his face we won't."

Behind the man in the dark suit are two heavyset men speaking in Spanish, one exclaiming about the size of the jet, and the other retaliating with a crude comment about the size of his cock in comparison to the jet. From their accents, Tony guesses they are South American, maybe Colombian. He's better at determining Italian regional accents.

Chris leans towards Tony and says, "The guy with the mustache is Paolo Perez. He's a Minister of Agriculture. The other one is Francisco Garcia, a government bigwig. Both are Colombian. Their country may be known for coffee production but they've been diversifying the past few years, introducing new crops, and it's paying off."

Senator Landry is laughing with his guests, directing them to seats, and then moving past them in the narrow aisle to greet the last passenger, who has just arrived. Tony cranes his neck but the man has already taken a seat, and he can only see the back of his head.

The entry door is closed and secured, and soon the jet is taxiing to the runway. They are in the air in what seems like record time.

• • • • •