At this point, I under how many people even remember this story, let alone want to read more. Oh well. Life is as life is, and mine has gotten far busier than it was when I last updated.
And I mean that genuinely. I am actually busy, not just burnt out and wallowing in my inability to write how I want. Still working on how I can keep my hobby and my job, and spend time with people instead of staying locked up in my house all day long.
It's a process.
To those of you who will actually come around and read this, thank you for your time. I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: The TV show NCIS belongs to CBS.
The man looked at his watch.
Two hours and two minutes since his first call to NCIS. Surveillance he had on Union had reported no NCIS or FBI personnel in the area since his ultimatum. He had anticipated they would break the conditions of his terms and set an ambush. Perhaps they were taking him with the appropriate level of severity. Or perhaps their ability to be covert had improved since the last time the man had run an operation in the United States. Though he doubted that.
The Region Senior approached him, tablet in hand. "Sir," he said. "I believe I've found out how he reached the Navy Yard without our knowing."
The man gave his full attention. "Go."
"I ran through several simulations with Analysts and conducted a review of our camera coverage." He showed the man the tablet he held. It was an overhead map of the DC area, with roads highlighted with different colors. Yellow. Blue. Red.
"Blue roads are ones where we have full access to all available fixed cameras in the area. Yellow, we have partial control. Red, we have none." The Senior tapped the screen, highlighting one of the red routes. "This route leads directly to the Navy Yard." He tapped the screen again, and the footage of the Complication arriving at NCIS played again. "And the direction his convoy comes from matches up perfectly."
He knew what cameras the man controlled. What route was not fully covered. There was only one way the Complication could know that.
The man was dealing with a mole.
"Adequate work," the man said. "Grant full local access to the head of my security; he will take over your investigation."
The man saw understanding flash in the other man's eyes. There was no fear present. "Of course, Death. I will be subtle."
The Region Senior walked away, leaving Death to return to waiting for the next call.
It arrived two minutes later. He answered on the third ring.
Ziva arrived at the outdoor garage, by the back road.
She stepped out, leaving the car running. She went for the flower bed to the side. She counted the number of roses in the bed, then stuck her fingers into the dirt between roses three and four. Her fingers touched metal.
Key was right where it should be.
She brought her hand out holding the key and wiped it on her jacket. Then she unlocked the side door and tapped the old plastic button to open the main door. She had Abby's car inside less than twenty seconds after her arrival.
Exiting the car and closing both doors, Ziva made for the main house.
She found Odette blocking the path instead. Ziva hadn't heard her arrive.
"Ziva," Odette greeted, neutrally.
"Odette," Ziva said in turn.
They stared at one another. They blinked.
Then Odette walked forward and took Ziva's hand in both of hers. "It's good to see you alive. Should have guessed that farmhouse business couldn't have kept you down."
Maybe things would be better if it had.
"Thank you," she said, gently removing her hand from Odette's and walking up the path. "I am sorry I am here."
"I'm not; I told you once I would always have your back."
"And for that I am grateful. But I fear this time, I am in over my nose."
She felt Odette give her a look. She knew then she had used the idiom incorrectly.
"I'm not completely out of the game, David," Odette said, as they reached her house. She opened the door stepped inside. "I've heard whispers. Whispers that say you have the Grim Reaper himself after you."
Ziva followed her in. The room beyond was the living room. It was small, as was Odette's home, but comfortable. Decorated with strange odds and beginnings, and few pictures. Ziva knew most of them were reminders of Odette's old assignments. "You know of Death?" she asked.
"I know that he exists," Odette said, sitting down in a chair next to a plain wooden coffee table. A kettle and two cups were already there, and she filled both. "I know that his namesake follows him wherever he goes. I know he's smart. And I know he will move heaven and earth itself to get whatever he wants. Right now, that something is here in Washington."
It was actually in her living room, in Ziva's back pocket. But Ziva didn't want her to know that. Yet.
She walked around the room, admiring Odette's trophies and souvenirs. The fact they gave an excuse to check for cameras and microphones was a coincidence. "He has Tony."
Odette gave her a look. "He was on your team at NCIS. The one you fell for."
"... yes."
"And he still lives?"
"Death claims so."
"So you were in contact with him."
"Not I. Another member of my old team."
"Agent Gibbs."
Sometimes, Ziva did not like how easily Odette could put together information.
Her feelings must have shown because Odette gave her a smile over her teacup. "I'm you, Ziva—just old and from another country."
Ziva knew that already; it was why she was here. She finally joined Odette near the coffee table. "I need your help."
"That was clear from your text," Odette said, taking another sip of her tea. "And my letting you in should have clearly given you my answer."
"I need weapons. Armor. Light, if possible; most vests slow me down. An untraceable vehicle."
Odette raised a brow. "Oh, is that all?"
"No. I need an address, too."
At that, Odette looked surprised. Surprised and pitying. "Ziva, don't tell me you're going to—"
"I do."
Odette shook her head, sighing. "Ziva, what you ask is—"
"Foolish?"
"Mad. Do you know why so few people even know Death exists?"
Ziva sat down, hands on her knees. Looked straight into Odette's eyes. "I suspect it is because he kills anyone who finds out."
"I was in the game for thirty years, David. Do you know how many of my friends died, and I never knew what killed them?"
She didn't answer.
"More than one per year. It wasn't until I was near my retirement that I heard his name. Put that name to the boogieman the CIA was too ashamed to admit was better than them. To the same thing that killed so many of my friends."
Ziva maintained her stare.
"This is not just another target, Ziva. This is beyond me. Beyond you. You will die well before you even get close."
"I am not sure you understand where I am coming from," Ziva said, and leaned closer. At last let Odette see more than just the mask she kept up for everyone. "He has Tony. And I will be getting him back. Even if I have to stab Death through his dead heart."
Odette's eyes became peculiar. Filled with a knowing mixture of amusement, sorrow, and grim realization. She raised her cup. "To killing Death himself. I'll make some calls."
Gibbs was trapped. Not in a cell. Not in a corner. But with an unseen gun at his head.
He was back at his desk, surrounded by fellow Agents and a brood of vipers, hidden in plain sight. How many of the SAC guys were legit? Were any of them? Was White, who sat just feet away from him? Had they really gotten the White House to sign off on them? Was that real?
Why were they really here?
He heard the elevator doors open, and he looked that way. Fornell stepped off, along with nine other, suited FBI Agents carrying computer bags and long rifle cases. A moment later, the second elevator admitted the same number of Agents similarly equipped.
Gibbs hid a smile. Fornell brought reinforcements.
"Find somewhere to set up shop," Fornell said to his Agents. "Think the Conference Room has space. And someone tell Laskey to grab my coffee when he brings the others up."
Smith seemed to materialize next to Gibbs' desk. One moment, it was empty, the next there stood the false CIA man, facing Fornell. "Agent Fornell," he said, his voice unnervingly blank. "Who have you brought with you?"
"Oh, these guys? My part of the joint investigation," Tobias said. "They were still gearing up when you got here; I caught a ride over with them after I grabbed a few files." He held up a trio of folders. Gibbs would bet money they weren't related to the case.
"I see," Smith said. "And when were you going to inform me you were bringing in such a large FBI presence?"
"You didn't give me much of a chance, what with you waltzing in and getting busy setting up shop for your boys." Fornell shrugged. "Besides, what's it matter? All three of our Agencies are on the same team. We need everyone we can get. Right?"
Smith looked to the FBI Agents making their way up the Squad Room stairs to the Conference Room. The Marine in Gibbs noted the FBI had a superior firing position. That wasn't by chance. "I suppose we do." He looked back to Fornell, his face once more a blank slate. "But for next time, please inform me when to expect additional friendlies."
Fornell shrugged. "I'll think about it. Guessing you two haven't been sitting around looking ugly while I was out?"
"You get the BOLO for Ziva?" Gibbs asked, for appearance's sake.
"Yeah, the hell happened? I thought she was happy to be back at NCIS?"
Smith shook his head. "Apparently, Agent Gibbs is not as good at reading the mental state of his peers as he believes. I've notified Langley. She'll be found, either by your Agencies or mine."
"Certainly, but we got bigger fish to fry," Fornell said, and in that moment, Gibbs saw him switch gears. "What's the plan for Union Station?"
"I was meaning to inform Gibbs of that." Smith looked to White, who'd been silently observing the whole time. "Bring it up."
White worked at his keyboard for a moment, and detailed blueprints of Union Station appeared on the screens that Smith's goons had set up.
"The Red Line at Union comes and goes from here," Smith said, tapping a finger against the screen and creating a red highlight in a section of the blueprints. "Like the majority of Metro lines, the platforms are not preferable for covert surveillance, especially with the city already on the verge of lockdown from recent events. Anyone that is placed on the platform to watch the dead drop will stand out and compromise the situation." He highlighted another section of the blueprint. "This walkway, also, is not ideal; it is the first place I would assign an asset to watch over the location. Next would be the next Metro car, then the neighboring platform. I will be placing assets at the front of the Red Line train, equipped with surveillance gear that will allow them to see the rearmost compartment. This will ensure both stealth and an efficient operation. Any questions?"
Gibbs shared a look with Fornell. He knew Tobias was thinking like he was. "That's quite the plan you've come up with," said Fornell. "It almost involves us, too."
"Spare me the dramatics," Smith said. "You were not aware of the operation. Now you are. You can take part by securing the perimeter."
Gibbs' eyes flicked up to the stairs above, where Vance had just exited his office. He nodded at Gibbs. They were ready.
He took a step closer to Smith. "There is one problem we're gonna need to discuss before this all goes down."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fornell frown with confusion that was genuine, even as Smith gave Gibbs his full attention. "What would that be, Agent Gibbs?"
Gibbs glanced left, then right. To the other Agents, some close, others walking along the side of the room, avoiding Smith's gundogs. Fornell's still-frowning face; he had no idea what Gibbs was talking about. Gibbs couldn't risk it on the phone.
"I'm meaning… the drive," he said, quietly.
Smith's impassive face remained unchanged, but his eyes gave away a guarded confusion. "What about it?"
"We've… been looking at it."
A particular glint appeared in Smith's eyes. "You've what, Agent Gibbs?"
"We've been working on decrypting it at an undisclosed location," he said. "They cracked it."
"Why haven't I been told this before?"
"Got the call from the Director two minutes ago. He's about to get a briefing."
The glint into a fire, hungry and greedy. Eager. "Then why are we standing here? I need to know what's on the drive." He turned to move toward Vance's office without waiting for anything else.
Gibbs followed after him, and Fornell matched his step. "What are you talking about?" he whispered. "I haven't heard anything about this."
"Director wanted as few people knowing as possible. Didn't want anything to compromise the work until it was done," Gibbs said, and threw in a sideways look for the other man's benefit.
Fornell seemed to understand the implication.
They reached the second floor a few seconds after Smith. By the time they got inside to the office of Vance's secretary, they were just behind him. Gibbs tensed as they approached Vance's office door, wide open and welcoming them inside. They had one shot at this. If he messed up, if they messed up…
NCIS would become a bloodbath.
Smith entered first, with Gibbs and Fornell just a step away. Vance sat at his desk, hands out of sight. Looking expectant.
Gibbs shut the door behind them.
Vance hit the button to engage SCIF mode. The door Gibbs just closed locked itself. The vacuum seals activated for the second time in the space of an hour.
And Smith froze. In that moment, that complete and utter stop the other man came to, Gibbs knew Smith had figured it out. That he'd sensed the trap.
Too fast for Gibbs to react, Smith drew a handgun from his waistband, hidden until then by his suit jacket. He took aim at Vance, finger inching toward the trigger.
"Nuh-uh. Not so fast."
Gibbs glanced left, toward the conference table to the side. Quinn was there, still rising up to her feet from her position at the far side of the table. She had her weapon out, pointed right at Smith.
Smith's head snapped to Quinn. Even facing away, Gibbs could feel the gears turning in Smith's head. The analytical consideration.
Gibbs crouched and drew the AMT Backup he had at his ankle, then took a quick step back, Fornell doing the same half a second later. "What do you think your odds are, now?" he asked.
Smith turned his glare to Gibbs. Now that he had those cold eyes on him, Gibbs understood just how much Smith had been hiding from the moment he stepped in the door. How dangerous he was. More dangerous than him. Than Quinn.
More dangerous than Ari.
"Worse, now," Fornell said, taking out his own weapon.
"My odds are irrelevant," Smith said, without emotion. "Where your priority should lie is whether or not I can shoot your Director before you can shoot me."
Vance tilted his head at Smith. Then he stood up, buttoned his suit, and met Smith's stare with one of his own. "Go head. Shoot. See what happens when you do."
The Director's office went quiet and still.
Gibbs held his breath. He had confidence in his Agent. In Vance. In Fornell. Even himself. But Smith was a cornered animal, desperate for a way out; and he was a pretender who'd just found out their cover was blown. There was scarcely a more dangerous combination than that.
He didn't know how long they all stayed like that, pointing weapons at one another. Waiting for, or considering, their next action. But when Smith finally lowered his weapon and dropped it to the floor, it felt like a year had passed.
"Secure him." The order came from Vance. Calm. Steady. Still staring at the man who'd just threatened his life.
Gibbs gave Fornell his weapon, not chancing a trick, and advanced to cuff Smith. Only when Gibbs secured the handcuffs to Smith's hands, and used Quinn's pair to cuff him to the table, did Gibbs finally breathe again. His lungs cried out in thanks.
Vance sat once again in his chair, placing his hands on the desk in front of him, poised and unbothered. Gibbs barely saw the slight twitch of his fingers, indicating how stressed Vance was. Leon hid the gesture by interlocking his fingers.
"So," Leon began, "who are you, Agent Smith?"
"Franklin Smith," Smith said, his voice cold yet sardonic. "CIA."
Fornell shook his head. "Load of crap. Case you haven't figured it out yet, we're onto you. We looked into your background and we got jack."
"That would be the point of the Special Activities Center, Agent Fornell."
"FBI didn't even know you were here until Agent Fornell informed his director," Leon said. "Which means you came here thinking it was just an NCIS operation. On top of that, the director of the FBI doesn't even know who you are, and he's worked with SAC before. You're not CIA, according to him. Which begs the question of how you were able to convince multiple members of the Presidential Cabinet to let you take over this operation."
Smith said nothing. Seemed unfazed.
"You a mercenary?" Leon guessed. "Hired gun meant to infiltrate NCIS, spy on us for Death?"
Smith scoffed, the sound unusual coming from him. "Believe me, if he wanted someone to spy on you, you would never know."
"Then who are you, then?"
"An individual, I suspect."
This was going nowhere, Gibbs decided. Smith was ready for this. Knew how to mock them while giving nothing away. That meant he was trained. Somewhere. Allied nation, or hostile? Russia? Germany? South Africa?
But then, how did he get Cabinet approval? They were among the most heavily guarded people in the country, privy to secrets Gibbs would never know. They couldn't just fool people like that, with access to so much information. Not unless you had access to the sources they got it from.
Something clicked in his head, and Gibbs froze.
He'd known about a classified op…
"You and your people have some serious hardware," Quinn said, walking behind Smith, on the other side of the conference table. "Advanced attachments for your weapons. C4. Armored SUVs. Enough influence to whisper in the ears of the Cabinet. You got resources behind you. Some corporations could provide them."
"Lobbying is a dangerous thing," Smith said. "Sometimes, it lets companies gain too much power."
"That how you got here? A company with too much power?"
Gibbs shook his head. "No. No, that's not it."
Quinn glanced at him roughly the same moment Fornell and Leon did. Smith didn't shift his gaze away from a spot on the wall.
Gibbs took a seat to Smith's left, three chairs down. "You know about Death. You know about Ziva. You know about the flashdrive. You know about classified ops I've never even heard of. Tells me you've got access."
"Anything can be hacked."
He nodded. "Maybe. Or maybe you don't need to."
Smith's eyes flicked to him.
"After all," Gibbs went on, "you can't hack your way into the Presidential Cabinet; you gotta have influence to get their ears. Influence, or power. Power that comes from a scary sponsor. Or employment with an agency above our paygrades. I can think of one that tends to bend laws to their will. And it's not the CIA."
He saw Smith reassess him then. Evaluate his worth in the blink of an eye. He gave a very faint smile. "You're wasted on NCIS, Agent Gibbs."
"Right where I want to be."
"Your files indicate that." Smith paused, worked his jaw a moment, and then nodded. "Fredrick Bolton, Special Tasks. NSA."
"NSA?" Vance sounded incredulous. "You expect us to believe a legitimate operative just pointed a weapon at the head of a federal agency?"
"I'm not what you call… orthodox," said Smith—now claimed to be Bolton. "Or official. Or an instrument to be used lightly. I'm not used to playing with others."
"That much is clear. Do you have anything to back up your story, or do you think we're that incompetent?"
Bolton nodded down to his chest. "False lining in my left inner pocket."
Gibbs looked at Vance, and Vance nodded. He advanced and put his hand into the indicated pocket. He felt at the lining, and it indeed came away. His fingers brushed against something smooth and seemed faintly similar to paper. He pulled it out.
It was a card. Small. Definitely concealable. It was red in color and flexed in his hands when he applied even a hint of pressure. It was semi-transparent in the middle, where Gibbs could see an ID photo of Bolton with a sequence of numbers laid on top of the image.
"You have a CAC in here?" Bolton asked.
Vance did. Gibbs handed the card to him, and Leon inserted it.
A login screen appeared on Vance's computer when he did.
"Enter the word Alpha, the word Tango, then the numbers 17. 13. 002-4," Bolton said.
Leon gave Gibbs a look. Gibbs gave it back.
Vance entered in the code.
The screen went dark, then came back on with an entirely different interface. It was basic. Crude. Just as Gibbs liked. The only things on screen were file folders with names using the characters of different languages.
"What is this?" Vance demanded.
"That, Director, is my C.A.U—Compartmentalized Access Unit. A nice toy the egg-heads made that lets me securely connect to certain NSA networks from any card reader on Earth."
"Like hell it does," Fornell said. Gibbs noticed then that Tobias had moved with he and Vance; apparently, he was curious. "How does showing us an old interface have anything to do with you being legit?"
Bolton raised a brow. "Click on a file."
Vance sighed, then said under his breath, "This better not have a trojan on it."
He clicked on a file. It opened to display a dossier with Vance's name, government-issued ID, and a significant amount of personal information, including recent Internet history. Every piece of information had comments to the side, written in the detached voice Gibbs had seen in just about every analyst he'd ever met. Most of them were comments regarding Vance's regular habits and routine.
Gibbs saw Leon's eyes harden, and he directed his fiery gaze on Bolton. "The hell are you doing spying on me?"
"It's the NSA, Director," Bolton said, completely unphased. "They spy on everyone."
"Talk about a security risk," Quinn said. "Someone gets a hold of that card and it's Snowden all over again. Or worse."
"Not when it runs on its own VPN that hides its Internet and Intranet usage from the most advanced surveillance. I have a colleague in China who uses it all the time. MSS is still trying to figure out what he looks at whenever he's on a laptop. I'm also the only one with my card's password. Of course, you've ruined that now. I'll need to burn it. HQ will skin me alive for that. Thanks for ruining my cover." Bolton smiled, hollowly. "What was it, anyway? CIA played ball with you for once? Or was it just the FBI side of things that screwed me?"
"You're just bad at the game," Fornell said.
"So it was just the FBI," Bolton said, then chuckled, shaking his head. "Damned Intel guys really messed up. They were all convinced NCIS was still the only agency involved."
"You have support staff?" Fornell asked.
"Just back channels. Open doors meant to be ignored. As I said, Special Tasks isn't exactly official."
Gibbs took in all the information—and all of Bolt's words—with silence. He analyzed. Considered. Ran through scenarios. Bolton's story made sense to a point; NSA certainly had the resources and ability to hide an operative like him. They also had a history of bending the rules. Breaking them outright, in some cases. Recruiting their own field operatives to run clandestine operations.
But one thing still didn't make sense.
"What do you think, Gibbs?"
He didn't answer Leon's whispered question. Not directly. He gave Vance a look, then stepped around the desk and in front of Bolton. He grabbed the chair next to him, flipped it around, then sat down. Then he starred at Bolton. Hard.
Bolton blinked. "What did I do now, Agent Gibbs?"
He starred a moment more. "Why does Ziva David know who you are?"
For the first time, Bolton paused. Seemed hesitant. Maybe even uncomfortable. "We had one or two… run-ins, before she managed to get herself out of the Middle-East."
"Run-ins?" Gibbs honed in the term, even as he fought the twitch at his eye.
Bolton let out a slow sigh. "I need you to understand, we've never wanted to hurt Ms. David."
"This sounds promising," Quinn said.
"I mean it. I've read her files, both from here at NCIS and when she was with Mossad; Special Tasks holds her in an esteemed light. Which is why we were profoundly confused when we had an authentic sighting of her two hundred miles from her farmhouse, a week after she was confirmed deceased. Special Tasks was built to investigate oddities like that. So, we investigated. Found she was mixed up with a very bad situation. We tried to… extract her."
"Yeah? How'd that go for you?"
Bolton worked his jaw. "I lived. Can't say the same of the four who went with me."
"Don't buy it," he said, shaking his head.
"It's the truth, Agent Gibbs," Bolton said.
"No, it's not. If she killed the others, there would have been no reason to spare you."
Bolton raised a brow. "Did I say she spared me? She didn't. She shot me, just like she shot them. My plate just caught enough of the bullet that I didn't bleed out before backup arrived."
Gibbs watched his eyes as he spoke. In them, he saw the same, guarded mask he'd seen since Bolton barged into the building. He wasn't saying everything.
"That doesn't explain why you didn't try to make contact before approaching her," Gibbs said. "Or why the first, real question you asked me when you got here was about her."
"It was after that first encounter that we realized David was in possession of… valuable information. Information that could be invaluable to the Intelligence Community."
"The flash drive."
Bolton nodded. "It was created by an asset of ours, someone I know you are already familiar with: Ms. Diana Woods."
"Woods was an NSA asset?"
"An… occasional source," Bolton said, his tone careful. "She worked ethically, but often unethical people disguise themselves as legitimate. Whenever she found something she believed might interest us, she made contact, then left the intel at dead drops. Until the last time she found something."
"On Death."
Bolton's eyes darkened. "Yes. Whatever it was, it made her run instead of talk to us. We searched her house, found evidence she took whatever intel she found with her. We tracked her to Israel, then lost her. It wasn't until we heard Ziva David—pronounced dead by every letter agency, including ours—was alive that we made the connection."
"And you tried to take it from her."
"I believe she thinks we're working for Death. A fair assumption. Incorrect, but fair; we're not exactly friendly."
Gibbs' gut was still talking to him. Telling him there was something more. Something bigger. How did they know about Death? Why wasn't he known to other agencies?
What was on the drive?
"And what do you know about Death?"
There was a subtle shift on Bolton's face. A slight tightening of his eyes. The danger showing its head again. "That's classified, Agent Gibbs."
"So read us in."
"I can't do that."
"Oh, don't make this hard now," Quinn said, stepping closer. "You've been playing us since you arrived, and if you're really on our side, we need to know what you know."
Bolton looked at her. "On the contrary, Agent Quinn—you don't need to know. And you won't."
The long security bolts—hidden within Vance's office doors—snapped with a loud clang as a heavy battering ram hit the doors just right, throwing them open.
Gibbs leaped to his feet, fight or flight kicking in, only to freeze as an HK416 pointed right at his chest. The guy who held it was the same one Gibbs dealt with outside Interrogation. Half a dozen other guys followed him in, aiming more rifles at Vance, Quinn, and Fornell.
"Drop it!" one barked at Fornell and Quinn.
"Drop yours!" Fornell barked back, though kept his and Gibbs' weapons down. Quinn didn't lower hers, either.
"About time you boys got here," Bolton said, calmly. As if there wasn't a standoff happening around him. "I was beginning to worry you hadn't noticed I was gone so long."
"Had to tie up the FBI guys," said one of the gundogs. The same one that had a rifle on Gibbs. Frank. "They were ready for us."
"They alive?" Bolton asked.
"Few were banged up. But yeah. Alive."
"Good." Bolton looked at Quinn and Fornell. "Stand down."
"Up yours," Quinn growled.
"Would it help if I said please? We're not your enemy, and you're not ours."
"Well then they should have no problem lowering their weapons first."
The standoff continued, neither side backing down. Gibbs saw a bead of sweat roll down Fornell's temple. Felt a bead of his own. He flicked his eyes to Leon and saw nothing but tension there. A grim acceptance. He gave Gibbs a single, small nod.
Carefully, with one hand raised, Gibbs reached into one of his pockets.
Four more rifles immediately trained on him. "Hands!" A voice bellowed.
Just as carefully and slowly, Gibbs took out his hand again, a small key pinched between his fingers. He saw the guys aiming at him relax. Least a bit. Still had their rifles on him.
He unlocked the cuffs securing Bolton to the table, then stepped back. The rifles followed him.
Bolton stood up, making a show of rubbing his wrists. "Thank you for that, Agent Gibbs. I was beginning to feel unwelcome." He looked at his gundogs. "Stand down."
"Boss," Frank said, rifle still up, "they had you cuffed in a chair—"
"Irrelevant. I'm released. They're outgunned." He paused, then added, "And they know."
That got glances from the gundogs.
"Might have been my own fault," Bolton went on. "Had to give them something after pulling a weapon on their director."
That got more glances. More importantly, it caused them to lower their weapons. Fornell and Quinn did the same.
And Gibbs felt like he could breathe again.
"Let go of anyone you've secured," Bolton said to Frank. "But keep the FBI wherever you put them for a moment; Agent Fornell and I will need to speak with them."
"Damn right we will," Fornell said. "And I'll need to talk to you about hurting my Agents."
"It's a regrettable situation," Bolton said, as if talking about his football team's woes. "We'll clear it up. Make sure we're all on the same side. Agent Gibbs, Director Vance, I assume you'll want to do the same with your people?"
"We will," Leon said.
"Good. I propose we meet in the main room in ten minutes."
Bolton stepped out of the room.
"Never did tell us what you know," Gibbs called out.
Bolton paused, then turned. His dark eyes locked with Gibbs' blue. "Pray I don't need to resort to that, Agent Gibbs. Now, let's all go make nice. We're running out of time to meet his deadline. I have no desire to bear witness should we fail to do that."
The man looked at his watch.
Two hours and thirty-two minutes since he had given his instructions to Special Agent Gibbs. Still no movement from either NCIS or the FBI. He had confirmed that was not due to his own assets being unable to pick out federal agents; they simply had yet to appear at Union Station. Curious. But no matter.
It was time to ruin whatever plan they had crafted.
He returned to the command center with his security in tow. He approached the Region Senior. "It is time. Is the Line prepared?"
The Region Senior nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Get me it."
The Region Senior opened a case on the edge of a nearby desk and removed a phone of the same model the man used to establish a time for the exchange. "Same number is saved. Will you require use of the NOOSE team?"
"Yes," the man said, unlocking the phone.
The Senior gave the room a few, brief instructions, and the Techs in the room altered the programs on their work stations and turned back, gazing at him. Waiting.
The man called the phone's only number.
Gibbs' phone rang.
He paused his explanation to other Agents in the Squadroom of what was happening—and who Bolton was—and took it out of his pocket.
Caller ID was Blocked.
"It's him!" he called out, and many of the personnel in the Squadroom—including NSA and FBI Agents and assets—looked his way. "Get working on a trace!"
He answered as Agent White—Gibbs still didn't know the man's real name—moved to his station. "Death."
"Agent Gibbs. I have changed my mind. You will be delivering the drive to Union Station in three minutes."
He frowned; his gut screamed. "We can't get there that fast."
"Then you were not adequately prepared to carry out my instructions. You will need to be shown the consequences of that."
The line died.
His gut screamed louder. Warning him. Telling him they had made a mistake.
A horrible, horrible mistake.
Gibbs looked up at the fast-approaching Bolton, who leaned forward over his desk. "What did he say? What did he want?"
Before Gibbs could answer, there was a flash from outside.
Then the room exploded.
I don't want to talk about how long I've been planning this part of the story, nor how long it's taken me to actually get here. But goodness, I'm here. Maybe I'll be able to find the time to work on this again when it hasn't been, you know, a year from the last time lol.
Thank you for reading. Be safe, be happy, and healthy.
See you soon.