Rule #3

An NCIS Story

By Roxanne Rolls (MAHC)

Rule #3 – Never believe what you are told. Double check.

Chapter 1: Rudderless

Special Agent Timothy McGee braced his palms on the railing of the walkway, letting his eyes scan across the bullpen, resting momentarily on each desk, visualizing the occupants of those desks over the past 18 years. As familiar as the room was, as many years as he had been immersed in the environment of that community symbolizing the team, the friends, the family, he had never seen it as he saw it in that moment.

He considered that he should be elated, satisfied, proud. He was lifetimes removed from the raw, innocent, stammering probie he had been when he stood toe-to-toe with the veteran supervisory special agent – already a legend at NCIS – and stared into those piercing blue eyes for the first time. From that moment, he knew that his success in the service would be measured by how those eyes saw him.

It was ironic, really, now that he had reached such a significant point in his career, that the death of the man he wanted most to be proud of him was the very reason for his achievement. His promotion to supervisory special agent came at the loss of a person he – and everyone else – considered to be the best agent NCIS ever had, and that meant he would never see the pride and approval from those blue eyes.

So maybe he was proud of himself, but not elated, and really not even satisfied. The achievement came at too high a cost. NCIS had lost a legend. Tim had lost a mentor, a friend and a father. And so, when his eyes settled on that particular desk, the one that had been across from his for almost 19 years, photos and mementos still pinned behind it, he knew it would be a long time before he could bring himself to sit in it. Even if his title gave him permission, his heart did not. Not yet.

XXX

Nick Torres considered himself adaptable. He could not have been so successful at long-time undercover missions if he were not. He had always felt as if problems would just slide off of his shoulders, Teflon-like. He was a lone wolf. He didn't need anybody but himself. He wouldn't rely on anyone but himself.

Until.

Until he was dragged from the murky depths of aliases and off-grid ops and thrust above the surface of legitimate law enforcement. Until Leroy Jethro Gibbs plucked him from oblivion to be part of the best MCRT in the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Until he discovered that being part of a team takes as much effort – and gives as much satisfaction – as working alone. Until one Special Agent Eleanor Bishop got under his skin and into his heart.

He perched on the edge of his desk and looked broodingly around the bullpen. The three other desks were empty. McGee was somewhere upstairs meeting with Director Vance. He would be coming back down eventually to occupy the desk next to Nick's. The same could not be said for the desks across from him. Bishop was gone, after some convoluted scheme to back stop herself as a disgraced former NSA and NCIS employee. After all the moments he thought they'd had, after opening himself again, as hard as that was, she was gone. And Gibbs – Gibbs was dead. Nick still could not wrap his mind around that brutal, raw thought. This man who had embraced him as a colleague, as a protégé, as a son. Nick thought back to the time the man who called himself his "father" had once again deserted him, and he sought – and found – refuge eating cowboy steaks in front of a warm fire, feeling accepted and appreciated.

How the hell could it have happened? Gibbs had survived so much, had cheated death multiple times, had seemed invincible. He was steady. He was constant. He was their rudder, always there, always on his team's six.

Until he wasn't.

And now "Team Gibbs" was rudderless, and Nick Torres did not know what that meant, not only for NCIS but also for him personally.

XXX

NCIS Director Leon Vance chewed thoughtfully on a toothpick, even though he felt guilty for picking the habit back up after he had promised his late wife he would stop. Jackie had hated the tendency. But Jackie was gone, and Leon figured anything that helped him keep sane after the trying year he'd just gone through wasn't so bad. Maybe even Jackie would have given him a pass.

He wasn't sure how they had all survived the events of the previous few months – and, indeed, not all of them had. His eyes fell to the badge and .45 that lay on his desk, and he considered what they represented. Thirty years of service. Thirty years of dedication. Thirty years of putting life and limb on the line to give closure to victims' families. Thirty years of righting wrongs and ridding humanity of evil men and women. His finger rubbed over the gold surface of the special agent symbol. Thirty years of loneliness, struggle, and pain.

Damn Gibbs anyway. Damn his stubborn insistence on seeing justice done at any cost. Damn his deep need to protect. Damn his refusal to show even a thimbleful of remorse for beating that sorry-ass dog killer and forcing Leon to suspend him.

And damn Gibbs for dying.

Even while he and the MCRT lead had locked horns at the beginning of Vance's tenure, the Director had known his senior agent was an exceptional investigator and leader. Their relationship had grown through the years, and as much as Leon regretted the loss of an irreplaceable agent, it did not come close to how much he mourned the loss of a friend.

XXX

When Jack Sloane decided to stay in Afghanistan, she had not really given any thought about how long she would be there. The only thing she figured was that she would make the decision when the time came to leave. But she didn't. Instead, the decision was made for her, and when U.S. troops banged on her tent door in the early hours of the morning, she was given less than 30 minutes to gather whatever she could stuff in a duffel, say goodbye to people she had just gotten to know over the past few months, and jump into the back of a crowded Humvee.

The pain of leaving behind women and girls whose future was suddenly in jeopardy brought anguish to her heart, and she had considered telling the marine rescuers to go on without her. But the thought of one man kept her from that. One man who had told her unequivocally that he did not want her to leave – not NCIS, not this world. One man who might just be sad if she sacrificed everything – including her life – in a fruitless cause. One man who – she hoped – would be glad to see her.

As their dust-swirling caravan paused at the gate set up to guard the perimeter of the Kabul International Airport, a tired looking sergeant took inventory of everyone packed into the vehicle. Upon hearing Jack's name, she bent to look into the back.

"Jack Sloane? NCIS Special Agent Jack Sloane?" she asked.

"Former," Jack replied. "But, yeah." Her gut churned suddenly at the grim frown that creased the sergeant's features.

"I have a message for you, ma'am."

Surprised, Jack asked, "For me?"

"Yes, ma'am. From the Director of NCIS. Came in a few days ago, but with the situation it never got to you. I was told if you were in any of our groups coming in I should give it to you."

Jack nodded, her heart jumping into her throat. From Leon. That meant it was probably not about anything wrong with Faith, thank God. But it almost certainly meant -

The sergeant stepped back into the small guardhouse. Jack watched as she rifled through a stack of papers until she pulled one out of the middle and approached the Humvee again. Without a word, she handed an envelope to Jack, then directed their driver toward a line of transport planes, already overrun with both Americans and Afghani seeking to make a safe egress as western control of the country crumpled.

Jack held the paper for another few moments, not able to look. It was about him. She already knew it, and her gut twisted with dread. Finally, she forced her thumb under the flap and tore into it.

Even over the din of plane engines, trucks, and desert winds, every passenger in the vehicle heard the sobbing gasp that jolted her seconds later.