Chapter 3: More Lives Than a Cat

He knew he should have taken out that reporter when he had the chance, but he really didn't figure she would be able to make a connection. And she hadn't, until the NCIS agent got involved. Suddenly, they were making connections all over the place. And despite the lame attempt to throw him off over the bug he had planted, he knew damn well Agent Gibbs had not given up, especially when he saw them snooping around that boat.

So there was really no other option. He lay in wait on the far side of the lake, past the swampland that separated his cabin from any access other than by boat. And he waited. He waited one day. He waited another day. And then another, until he almost second-guessed himself. But then, as he lifted the binoculars yet again, he finally saw it, and he had to admit that Gibbs had a damn beautiful boat, just about the most beautiful boat he had ever seen. Sleek lines, gleaming wood, chrome sparkling in the sun. And headed toward the far side of the lake. Maybe once he disposed of Gibbs, he would take that beauty somewhere no one would recognize it and let her rip.

He was in the middle of imagining himself at the wheel, flying across the water, when his future craft exploded, a roiling ball of fire shooting up from the water's surface, splintered remnants of polished wood and gleaming chrome hurled violently into the air before they plunged back into the lake. He stared at the sight for a good five minutes, stunned, but searching for any sign of Gibbs. No way the agent had survived such a blast. His body would have been shattered just like his boat. But still he searched, until finally, after 10 minutes of seeing nothing but burning, jagged debris, he lowered the binoculars, both relieved and disappointed that the task of getting rid of Gibbs had been done for him. He wondered what had happened. His bugs in Gibbs' basement let him know that the man had built his own boat. Impressive, but maybe he made a mistake with the engine. Maybe he had downed too much of that bourbon the reporter commented on while he was tinkering with it. Or maybe it was just pure luck. Regardless, this bit of serendipity left only Marcie Warren to take care of.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

XXX

Leon Vance pressed two fingers against his temple in a futile attempt to stave off yet another headache. It seemed as if his days were filled with headaches now, both the physical and metaphorical types. Gibbs' team – he caught himself yet again thinking about his best team of agents as Gibbs'. They were once. They weren't anymore. And he wasn't even sure he could call them his best at the moment. With Torres moping around over Bishop's departure, McGee refusing to move his stuff to Gibbs' desk, and Knight just trying to figure out where she fit, Team Gibbs…or Team Whatever…was pretty dysfunctional. He sighed, muttering a bit of profanity he had once grounded Jared a week for saying.

"Director?"

Punching the intercom button, he replied to his secretary. "Yes?"

"There's a Marcie Warren to see you, sir." She paused and added, with warning in her voice, "Marcie Warren, the reporter."

He almost snapped back that Marcie Warren, the reporter, was not welcome at NCIS, but something stopped him. Gibbs might have said it was a gut feeling, but Gibbs was dead, and Vance did not trust his gut as much as he had trusted the famous one of his veteran agent. So, he stood, automatically buttoned his suit jacket, and opened the door.

The woman who greeted him was older than he had pictured, but she moved with energy and an athletic quality that was almost ageless. Slim and attractive, she smiled politely at his entrance, extending her hand and introducing herself.

"Marcie Warren," she said firmly, dropping her hand when he ignored it. Maybe that was petty, but he wasn't in the mood to offer courtesy. Tilting her head, she added, "I'm the reporter who did the story on – "

"I know who you are, Ms. Warren." He didn't even try to keep the disdain from his tone. "You are the reason the best agent NCIS has ever had is dead."

For a moment, Warren stared at him, her eyes steady, a slight smile pursing her lips. Then, she said, "Director, I did not make Agent Gibbs do anything he didn't want to do. I simply gave him an opportunity to do the same thing he has done his entire career: capture criminals. That's something you had taken away from him, even though you claim he is the 'best agent NCIS has ever had.'"

Guilty anger flared through him. "If you had just stayed away from him, he wouldn't have done that story and we could have – "

"Swept it all under the rug?" she finished.

Without looking at his secretary, he said, "Tell security Ms. Warren is leaving. They will escort her – "

Demeanor suddenly softening to a more submissive stance, she cut in, "Please, Director, I'm sorry."

Never say you're sorry. It's a sign of weakness. He shook his head against the echo of Gibbs' voice.

"If I could just – if we could just talk for a moment in your office? Please?"

As much as he wanted to throw her out on her ass right then, to put the blame for this entire mess on her shoulders, he could not deny his own complicity. He had forced Gibbs' hand, thinking the agent would do anything to get back on the job. He had once told Leon, "This job – it's what I have." Surely, he would not throw that away. But Gibbs had called his bluff, handing over badge and weapon without even one word of protest.

And so, he glanced at his secretary, who stood watching the exchange with wide eyes, and said, "Hold my calls," before he motioned Marcie Warren into his office.

Ten minutes later, head spinning, but heart considerably lighter, he flung open his door and barked to get Agents McGee and Torres up to his office ASAP.

He swore Leroy Jethro Gibbs had more lives than a cat. Thank God.

XXX

He waited until he heard Marcie's car pull away from the motel room, then set to the task of dragging his battered body out of the bed – and found out immediately that sitting up the normal way was out. Hissing through the fire that shot across his ribs, he waited a few more minutes before he tried rolling gingerly onto his right side and letting his legs slide off the edge. Better. Not great, but better. The wound on his forehead pounded, and he closed his eyes tight against it, long enough to leverage himself with one arm to a sitting position. It took a fair amount of effort not to throw up as his muscles and joints screamed to remind him he had only recently been blown up, damn it.

Pulling the clothes Marcie had bought from their various bags, he grunted and groaned his way through the agonizing process of putting them on, mumbling a sincere thank-you for the slip-on sneakers. It occurred to him to wonder how Marcie got the sizes right, but considering he had woken up bare-ass naked under the covers, he decided not to think too hard about it.

Fortunately, she had laid out his wallet on the bathroom counter, contents spread apart to dry quicker. He fingered the fading photograph of Shannon and Kelly that had seen 30 years of abuse but somehow remained relatively intact, then plugged in the complimentary blow dryer to help the worn leather dry just a little bit faster. It was still damp – and nicely warm – when he stuffed his driver's license and credit cards back into their slots. The photo went into the back pocket of his jeans to avoid any more moisture. He had no idea where his phone was, or if it had even survived.

Glancing in the mirror, he raised an eyebrow at his reflection. The man who stared back at him looked like he had gone twelve rounds with Ali and then another ten with Frazier. Despite Marcie's first aid, blood still spotted his face and hair, his right cheek was red and swollen, and his right forearm looked like it had been through a meat grinder. Underneath the t-shirt, which he just noticed bore the Superman logo across the chest – Marcie had a strange sense of humor – he knew he probably was dealing with cracked or broken ribs but hopefully not any internal bleeding. Either way, he didn't have time to find out.

Not bothering with a key card – he didn't plan on coming back to that motel – he staggered out into the glare of the day, sucked in as deep of a deep breath as he could manage, and straightened, hoping that, when he asked the motel manager to get him a ride back to D.C., nobody would call for an ambulance.