Author's Note: I wanted to say thanks for the reviews I've gotten, and encourage others to leave some as well. I appreciate all forms of constructive criticism, and honestly I'm aware of more than a few mistakes in this story. I just never seem to have the patience to find 'em, so if you help I can fix 'em sooner. Also I just like hearing what others think of my work, but don't we all?

Disclaimer: See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

N Old Dominion/September 15, 2010, 1857 Romeo

"Oh Gibbs! This is terrible! You've got to find Timmy!"

"Abby," Gibbs tried to gain the attention of the panicking forensics scientist. One hand held his cell phone to his ear, and the other steered his dangerous blur of a Charger through whatever traffic didn't dodge out of his way in a panic. He was mere minutes from McLean, and he had one helluva deadline.

"I mean, God knows what a SEAL can do to someone like Timmy! I mean, he can handle himself, but this is a SEAL, Gibbs! A trained SEAL who's done covert ops for fifteen years!"

"Abby," Gibbs growled, not at Abby, but at the sight before him: a traffic jam caused by a t-bone accident. The tires on the Charger screeched, DiNozzo and Ziva held on for dear life, and Gibbs hoped for the best as the vehicle whipped through other lanes, causing cars to skid to a halt in panic, before heading up an exit to take the long way into McLean. He didn't want the long way at all, but it seemed to be the only way.

"Think of all the world leaders, terrorist cell leaders, and persons of interest he's assassinated or killed, or tortured for information! I mean, those guys were bad guys, hopefully, but that just means he has the capability to-"

"Abby!" Gibbs shouted, and this time she shut up. Now that he had her attention, his reassuring voice took over. "We're on it, Abby, all three of us. We're gonna get him back. But if we don't get him back here, we need to be ready in case he uses McGee to try and find Hanson and Margott. I need you to keep an eye on increased searches for them, and attempts to locate them. Then I need you to trace them, and let us know where they're comin' from. Can you do that?"

For a moment, there was silence, then, "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, I will do that, and then we'll get Timmy back and take this guy down, and everything'll come out fine."

"Atta girl," Gibbs said. "Call me when ya got something."

As the sky turned blacker and blacker above them, the MCRT rushed to the aid of one of their own.

Churchill Road, McLean, VA/September 15, 2010, 1919 Romeo

Vince Hauser didn't like these circumstances. When he'd hit Stockwell and Callaway, he'd scouted out their homes for days beforehand and developed a plan. True, in Callaway's case he'd been forced to abandon the plan and go loud, but he'd known what to expect of the home. This time, and for the next three hits, though, he wouldn't know squat beforehand.

It seemed to be an act of balance. He had a hostage with whom he could find his targets and, if necessary, barter with or even use as a distraction, but it came at the cost of sufficient pre-planning. Agent McGee also slowed him down, not to mention seemed intent on foiling him. He'd have to be careful if things went down badly.

As he mulled this over, he was looking to his left, across the street. A few hundred feet ahead was a left-hand, right-angle turn onto Elizabeth Drive, where CIA senior official Stan Merdetzky slept his nights in peace. Hauser set his jaw as he thought of the injustice of that, then looked to Agent McGee, who had his head leaned back and his eyes closed. If he had to guess, Hauser ventured that McGee's left eye would be even more swollen than it already was before too long, to the point when he wouldn't even be able to open it.

Doesn't get treated soon, he might not be able to even use it anymore, Hauser reflected. All the more incentive for him to help me and get this over with faster.

Hauser wanted to wait. It was literally two – now three – minutes since sunset, and the night was fresh and young. People were returning home from work, and if he made his move now he'd most likely be seen. If someone got suspicious and called the cops that would put even more pressure to get it done. They'd likely continue to watch him as they waited for the police to arrive, and so when they finally did and missed him by a few minutes, the witness would have a car and maybe even license-plate number to give.

But Hauser had learned a lot in his twenty-years in SOCOM. One of those things was to listen to his gut, and right now his gut was telling him that he'd need to move soon. In fact…yeah, now was the right time.

"Alright Agent McGee, listen up," Hauser said. McGee's head lolled to the side and his eyes cracked open, showing he was listening. "I'll be right back. Don't try to go anywhere, you won't get far."

With that, he opened the door, stepped out, and shut the door before walking across the street. He didn't lock the car with the black fob on the key-chain; that would've caused noise he didn't want. Besides, McGee would've simply had to push the unlock button, making the gesture pointless.

A breeze came as he turned onto the east side of the north-south-bound Elizabeth Drive. As he approached the third house on the left, the one with the address McGee had provided, he considered the possible outcomes. He was certain McGee hadn't lied, but if he'd somehow managed it, then he was walking into the wrong house, and all he'd do is show his face to someone who didn't need to see it. If that was the case, then he'd just have to put 'em down. He couldn't simply time them up and leave them: there was a risk that a friend or other somesuch might show up, free them, and then he'd have a sketch of his face out in the dashboard computer of every cop in Virginia, and maybe D.C. Alternatively, there was a chance no one would come along for days, and the poor schmuck would die from dehydration. A .45 to the brainpan was a favor compared to that.

"Come on Slick," Dasher wheezed. "Just a sip."

"I told ya Dasher," Hauser replied weakly. Their progress was slow, with Dasher hanging off his side and their only living target being dragged behind them on a rope around his wrists. And it was just so damn hot. "We don't have a sip."

A favor. Hell yeah it was.

Picking up his pace, Hauser scanned all the houses he could see. Only a few had lights on, and he couldn't see any movement or shadows in 'em. After checking his back, he hooked a left along the side of Merdetzky's front lawn, in the shadows of a fence covered in vines. He reached a wooden gate, about six feet tall, that lead into the back yard. After making sure there was no one in the windows of the house who could see him, he leapt up, caught the edge, and hauled himself over quietly.

The lights were on, and a quick test of the doorknob showed the backdoor was unlocked. Leaving it closed, Hauser crouched down and pulled up the left leg of his jeans, revealing a sheath of his own just above his boot. But it had no knife. Instead, it held a Blackside-45 suppressor. After fixing his jeans leg, he stood, reached under the back of his shirt with his right hand, and withdrew his USP Tactical. A few quick screws, and the suppressor was firmly fixed to the barrel.

The door didn't even creak as he opened it, quieter than a mouse, and stalked through the halls of the small, humble home. He held his USP ahead of him, ready to hold up his target the moment he saw him. His footsteps were light and slow, rolling on the balls of his feet to almost entirely eliminate noise. He peered around a corner and saw an older man working at something on a counter in the kitchen. The man then turned and walked to the side, his gaze never nearing the corner Hauser was peering around. Quickly and quietly, Hauser followed him, only stopping at the doorway to the living room. There the man sat with his back mostly to him while enjoying a sandwich, the kind an everyman would rather get by going to a restaurant.

The older man was just about to take another bite when he heard a click behind him. He'd never heard a real gun in his life, but the hairs standing on the back of his neck didn't need much convincing.

"You alone?" a voice asked from behind.

For a moment, the older man didn't answer. Then Hauser pushed the suppressor into the crook where his spine and skull met and applied a small bit of pressure.

"Are. You. Alone?"

"Yes," the man said.

"Put the sandwich down," Hauser instructed, and the man did so. "Now, put your hands up, stand, and turn around." The man slowly did so, his mind racing to figure who could be responsible for this. When he was standing and facing the intruder, Hauser asked the million dollar question: "What's your name?"

The man's face registered confusion for a moment before he found his voice again. "Stan. My name's Stan."

"Stan what?"

"…Mer-Merdetzky. Stan Merdetzky. Wh-What do you wa-"

In less than a second, Hauser pulled the trigger three times, with only the slightest pause between the second and third shot as he adjusted his aim. The suppressor turned the firecracker-like pops of the .45s into what sounded like someone flicking a piece of paper with their finger really hard. The first two shots impacted with his sternum, mere millimeters apart. The third shot blossomed a black hole in the middle of his forehead, and a fine red mist with small clumps tainted the air before splattering on the knee-high table behind Merdetzky, but those spatters were soon hidden by his falling body.

When the body hit the table, it gave a twitch, and then was still. Hauser looked at it for a moment, then turned and left.

McGee sat in the BMW and stewed, utterly ashamed of himself.

Gibbs wouldn't have given in, he thought. Neither would Tony, and especially not Ziva. They would've fought back at the gas station. They would've forced him off long enough until the rest of the team showed up. And what did you do? You squealed like a pig.

"My eye hurts," he said to himself, unaware he was even doing so. "My eye hurts, my head hurts, my side hurts, my knee hurts…God, everything hurts."

That wouldn't have stopped Tony or Ziva, the inner voice countered. And it damn sure wouldn't have stopped Gibbs.

"Well I'm not Tony or Ziva," he replied. "And I damn sure aren't Gibbs."

His mind then wandered to Stan Merdetzky and the information McGee had found on him during his info search of the committee.

He's a grandfather, you know. His grandson's name is Todd, and he's never missed a single birthday.

McGee didn't fight the tears, the tears for the poor man he didn't even know. What Merdetzky did was wrong, but it didn't warrant death. None of them deserved to die. Hauser's team, Stockwell, Callaway, and now soon Merdetzky. So much undeserving death, and he was caught up in the middle of it all now.

It's not too late. You can still make a difference. You can save the last two.

"How? How can I do that?" he asked himself.

Konk konk konk

McGee jumped and looked to the window, where the young man who had knocked stood.

"Hey you alright man?" he asked, his voice muffled but audible.

That's how.

McGee didn't even think as he opened the door, which the man stood aside to allow open. "You've gotta help me," he said. "This man's kidnapped me, and he's killing people. He beat me for information, he's gonna kill more people. You gotta help me, I-"

The young man showed shock at this, "Whoa, what?"

"He's after people, people I know how to find, and he's killing them and he, you, you gotta help me-"

The young man stood, his head whipping around in confusion. He then looked back at McGee for a moment, then seemed to calm down and nod. "Alright, alright, uh, oh Christ, uh, come on, let's get you outta here before he gets back." He lifted McGee out of the car, hanging from his side. When he was on their feet, they started heading east, away from Elizabeth Drive. They hurried as fast as McGee's bum leg could go, and the agent began to actually feel the hope of escape.

Then they heard the sound of running footsteps behind them.

They both looked over their inner shoulders as they tried to keep going, but it was no use. Vince Hauser was already on them, his right hand drawn back as if he were Bruce Willis about to throw a punch at the camera. But in his hand was his USP, the suppressor still attached. Then he threw his fist forward, as if he were throwing a Hollywood punch, or planning to stab the man helping McGee with his suppressor.

The instant the end of the suppressor contacted the corner of the man's forehead by his hairline, Hauser pulled the trigger. The snap of the shot was perfectly synced the sounds of the back of his skull exploding outward, and its contents splattering on the sidewalk. With a heavy thump, McGee and the dead man hit the ground, Hauser running by a few steps, carried by his momentum. He immediately stopped, unscrewing his suppressor as he looked around for witnesses. He dropped the suppressor into his pocket, holstered his USP, and lifted McGee off the ground into the same position his would-be rescuer had him.

"I hope you learn the lesson here, Agent McGee," Hauser said as he hurried back to the car, as fast as he could. McGee wasn't listening though, his mind lost in the crushing weight of what could only be brain matter in his hair. Finally, Hauser got him back in the seat and leaned in with this to say: "Don't get people involved. It only gets them killed when they don't need to be."

The door closed, McGee staring ahead as if in a comatose state as Hauser took his spot in the driver's seat. The BMW sprung to life, pulled out, and drove west on Churchill Road, leaving the two bodies behind.

For three seconds, the neighborhood was utterly silent. Then, the sound of an approaching motor broke the silence, as if someone were turning the volume of a racing movie up slowly. Then, seven seconds after the BMW had driven off, the navy blue Dodge Charger zoomed around the corner of Capitol View Drive onto Elizabeth Drive, heading north before screeching to a stop before the home of Stan Merdetzky. The doors burst open, and Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva leapt out.

"Tony, get the back, move move!" Gibbs ordered as he and Ziva ran for the front door, Tony zipping to the side. As Gibbs and Ziva took position on opposite sides of the door, Gibbs knocked as loudly as he could.

"Mr. Merdetzky! NCIS, open up!" He waited, and there was only silence. "Mr. Merdetzky?"

"Boss," Tony's voice came through Gibbs's earwig. "Back door's open, I'm movin' in."

Gibbs nodded at Ziva, as they both drew their SIGs. Ziva lashed her leg out and kicked the door open as the two moved in.

"Clear!" Ziva called.

"Clear!" Gibbs echoed.

"Boss!" Tony's voice came from the living room. "In here!"

Gibbs and Ziva made their way to the living room, and there Tony stood by the main coffee table. There lay the still bleeding body of Stan Merdetzky, surrounded by the stink of death and its unpleasant releases.

They could only stare as they realized how close they truly were.