A/N: Wow, what a response! Thanks for all the reviews, I'm overwhelmed.

Government buildings are usually drab; taxpayers don't like their money spent on fancy furniture and decorations. The waiting room Ziva found herself in was large, with rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs filled with people of all sizes and nationalities. At the end of the room were three desks manned by three very harassed-looking people.

Ziva walked up to one of the security guards. "Excuse me..." she started.

"Take a number," the man said shortly, indicating a machine with a piece of paper sticking out of it.

Taking a deep breath, Ziva pasted a phony smile on her face and tried again. "I was told to come here and I would be taken care of right away," she said.

"No appointments," the guard said. "You have to take a number and wait with the rest of the people here."

"You don't understand," Ziva said, trying hard to maintain her composure. "I'm a government agent, I need to..."

"No exceptions," the guard said firmly, glaring at the smaller woman.

Ziva closed her eyes and counted to ten, wondering how Gibbs knew she should leave her weapons at the office. She was certain if she had her gun with her she would have drawn it and threatened the offending man. As it was, the man didn't know how close he came to being thrown to the floor, suffering a few broken bones along the way.

Letting out a slow, deep breath, Ziva opened her eyes and smiled at the guard. She walked over to the machine and took a number with exaggerated enthusiasm and sat down in one of the plastic chairs.

The woman in the seat next to her leaned over and said, "They're pretty strict, aren't they?" Ziva turned to look at the woman, who smiled broadly. She was older, mid-fifties, with curly hair dyed an unnatural red. Ziva couldn't quite place her accent, guessing it was Eastern European.

"Yes," she said ruefully, "it looks as if I'll be spending some time here."

"I'm Sophie," the older woman said. "I've been here for an hour already and they've only called three people up."

"An hour?" Ziva sputtered. "That's ridiculous. I have a job. I have a life. I can't spend my whole day here."

Sophie patted her shoulder sympathetically. "It won't do you any good..." She gave Ziva a questioning look.

"Ziva."

"What a pretty name! Well, it won't do you any good, Ziva," Sophie said, "they don't give anybody special treatment. My son's a lawyer and he couldn't get anywhere with the blockheads on the phone."

"That's just great," muttered Ziva, slumping into her chair.

"Would you like something to read?" The woman fumbled in the bag she was carrying and pulled out a copy of Ladies Home Journal. "Here you go, dear," she said, pushing the magazine into Ziva's hands, despite the young woman's protests.

This was going to be a long day.

Tony's head felt like someone had hit him with a two-by-four. Thinking about it he realized it was a nightstick. He vaguely remembered being pulled over by the Sheriff's Department. The officer wasn't Deputy Johnson, but an older man, tall, muscular, with a definite attitude. He ordered Tony to get out of the car and when the agent had reached in to grab his wallet he was hit from behind.

Now Tony found himself hanging in what appeared to be a barn. He could smell livestock, but didn't see or hear anything in any of the stalls. There were bales of hay stacked against the wall, and a ladder leading up to a hayloft. He was suspended from a wide beam, his wrists shackled with a pair of handcuffs, the chain hooked to a heavier chain bolted to the beam. His jacket, belt and shoes had been removed, and his feet were two feet off the ground, chained together and attached to a metal ring bolted to the floor.

"Here's another fine mess you've gotten yourself into, Anthony," he muttered to himself. He struggled for a bit, pulling down on the cuffs resulting in nothing but badly chafed wrists. Pulling up on the chain hooked to the floor did no good either; he was definitely in serious trouble.

After what seemed like hours, Tony heard a car pull up. Three door slams warned him that he was going to face at least three people. Tony feigned unconsciousness, keeping his eyes open slightly to see who his captors were. The older officer entered, followed by Johnson and his sister. Seeing Sally surprised him but also gave him hope that he could charm her into helping him escape. She had shown enough interest in him that she might believe any sweet talk he fed her.

The bigger man grabbed Tony's hair and pulled his head up, slapping his face with his other hand.

"Wake up, boy," he growled.

Tony opened his eyes and gazed blearily at the man in front of him. "Just ten more minutes," he said, "school doesn't start until 8:30."

Sheriff Robert Nelson drew back and hit Tony, the agent's head snapping back with the force of the blow.

"You got a smart mouth on you, boy," he said, hitting Tony again, "that'll get you a lot of trouble."

Tony spit blood on the floor, "It has before," he said, his head spinning, "why be different now?"

"Bobby, don't mess up his face too much," Sally said, "he's so pretty."

"Shut up, Sally," barked Nelson. "I'll deal with you later."

"But Bobby," pouted Sally, "I didn't do nothing. I was just playing with him."

"That's enough." Nelson turned to Tony. "You need to learn that you don't mess with another man's woman." A couple of well-placed blows caused Tony to lose what little lunch he had eaten and left him gasping for air.

Nelson looked down at his boots, then back at Tony who smiled weakly and said, "Sorry."

"Oh, you will be." The look on the Sheriff's face sent a chill down Tony's spine.

"Use the whip, baby," squealed Sally. "I love to watch the muscles in your back and arms move when you whip 'em."

"Luther, get me my tools," Nelson called over his shoulder to his deputy, never taking his eyes off Tony. He took off his shirt and grinned at the helpless agent.

"Now we're gonna teach you a lesson."