Disclaimer: See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.
COL Warren Hanson's (US Army, ret.) Home, Annandale, Virginia/September 16, 2010, 0007 Romeo
Warren Hanson was in a comfy chair in his study, a book in his hand and a shotgun laid across his lap. He had a trained operative of the highest order out to kill him, yet he was as calm as a man waiting for his number to be called at the DMV. No doubt it was a side effect of his own days as an operative, tough only of the Special Forces variety.
Six FBI agents were positioned outside: two in two cars each to watch the road, and two in the backyard. Inside the house itself, Agents Gibbs, David, and DiNozzo of NCIS, and two FBI agents, were placed around the house in the best hiding spots they could find, all perfect for ambushing a man attempting to sneak into the house. They had all their bases covered, and were simply waiting for Hauser to make his move.
That move seemed fast in arriving.
"Boss," Tony said through the cuff mic of his blue field jacket. "The marker's stopped. Don't know if the car's stopped, but the cell phone definitely has."
"Where's it at, DiNozzo?" Gibbs replied.
"Less than half-a-minute north, driving time. On foot, it'd take him awhile longer."
"How much longer?" Gibbs asked, his voice carrying a slight tone of impatience.
"Uh…five, five minutes."
Gibbs's pocket then came alive with the vibration of his silenced phone. He was initially going to ignore it, but the possibility of McGee somehow getting out of the car, hiding, and making a call for help made him at least check the caller ID. It was Abby, and so Gibbs knew it was, at the least, probably very important.
"Yeah, Abbs?" he asked, his voice still conveying impatience. It would make one wonder how he ever made it as a scout sniper.
"Gibbs! After I got the trace, I thought of a way to see what kind of car they're using! I pulled up GPS signals for all the cars in the area on a real-time updated stream and overlaid it onto the GPS track of the phone McGee's using."
"Yeah? And?"
"They're using a 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix, black-grey in color."
"Got it Abbs, I'll let 'em know to keep an eye out for it."
He had almost hung up when Abby's voice gave him pause.
"Gibbs, wait! That Pontiac has OnStar, and the system's reporting a crash! I zoomed the GPS in as close as I could, the car's actually off the road! McGee could be hurt!"
Gibbs didn't even thank her before hanging up.
"DiNozzo! Get the Bureau guys and get to the GPS point, now! The car's crashed, we might be able to get Hauser and McGee now, go go go!"
There was hissing and steam, but otherwise the crashed Grand Prix was utterly quiet. Then, one of the windows dented outward and frosted over in millions of tiny cracks. Another impact knocked it clean out of the door, and it took a moment for Hauser to catch his breath and crawl out of the wreckage.
Hauser lay there on his back, looking at the stars as he caught his second wind. There was a gash on his head that covered the far left side of his face, everything between the eye socket and the ear, in blood. His clothes were torn and ragged, and he had more bruises than he could count. As he lay there breathing, he soon started to chuckle, and then outright laugh. Oh, it hurt to laugh.
Good job, Agent McGee, he thought. I applaud you on that one.
Hauser turned onto his side, lay there for a moment, then finally sat up. His plan had just been changed for him, it seemed. Oh well, Hauser would just have to roll with it. He thought over his choices, and in regards to the agent he had two: shoot him or leave him. Hauser was already within walking distance of his last target, so McGee was no longer necessary. But, really, there wasn't much harm he could do besides testifying, and Hauser hadn't lied when he said McGee wouldn't need to testify. One way or the other, he wouldn't need to.
Hauser's decision was even further cemented when he heard the sounds of fast approaching engines, three, maybe four of them. Hauser's gut told him those engines were bound for his current position, so he simply nodded, drew his USP, and slinked off into the shadows, leaving Agent McGee to be found by whoever was coming to the crash site.
On the curve at the northern-most end of Starr Jordan Lane, three cars pulled to a stop at the road's edges, forming a perimeter to block oncoming traffic from both directions. Nine men armed with handguns and flashlights emerged and began darting their beams around the woods.
"Got it!" one shouted, his light on a twisted warp of broken window.
NCIS Senior Field Agent Tony DiNozzo led the advance down the slope, three of the eight FBI agents remaining on the road to provide overwatch. Tony and the other five began securing the perimeter before the SFA dropped to his knees beside the wrecked car, lowered his torso as far as he could, and looked into the trashed cab, shining his flashlight around.
The beam only found a black bag, a broken cell phone, and pieces of zip tie. Glass shards of various sizes littered the roof (which was now the floor), and one particular piece stood out due to its large, almost knife-like size, and the amounts of blood all over it. If that weren't enough, there appeared to be matching blood on the remains of the zip ties.
He cut his hands on the glass while cutting his bonds, Tony figured.
"Agent DiNozzo!" a voice called. "We've got footprints!"
"They shuffle!" another added. "Whoever it is is hurt!"
Tony stood and looked about. Where are you, Probie? he thought.
"Spread out!" he ordered as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "Stick in pairs, keep your eyes open! Let's find these guys!" With that, he dialed up emergency services. He had a feeling they'd need some back up…and an ambulance or two.
COL Warren Hanson's (US Army, ret.) Home, Annandale, Virginia/September 16, 2010, 0025 Romeo
His injuries had made him slow, as had the need for stealth, but Vince Hauser had managed to follow the backyards of several houses along Starr Jordan Lane until he found the one that mattered most. With suppressed USP in hand, Hauser tested the back door and found it open. Just like the others…
Strings of good luck always end, he thought. Badly.
Just another risk among the thousands he took by simply living. Slowly and quietly, Hauser eased the door open, slinked in, and closed the door with barely a sound.
Considering how quiet the house was, however, it was still too loud for his taste.
Hauser began to slowly move inward, rolling his weight as usual, and kept his ears open. The house was quiet, as if empty, or its inhabitants sleeping. Hauser wondered what he'd do if the former were the case, though he highly doubted it…the lights were still on.
The back door area gave way to the kitchen, which gave way to the living room without incident as he made his slow, methodical progress.
Without incident, that is, until he entered the living room.
"Don't move, dirtbag," a strong voice in an unpleasant mood ordered. Hauser froze, his USP still aimed forward, before slowly turning his head to the left.
There was a doorway hidden just right by the shadows of the doorway connecting the kitchen and living room. In this doorway stood an older man with grey hair and steely blue eyes in a blue wind jacket holding a SIG Sauer P229 DAK, pointed right at him. The look on his face was one of concentrated authority…and a tinge of anger.
"Agent Gibbs, I presume," Hauser said conversationally. "Agent McGee's mentioned you once or twice."
Gibbs raised his head slightly. "He mention her, too?" he asked with a nod of his chin, indicating something behind Hauser. The SEAL slowly turned his head to view the area to his right, and saw a toffee-skinned woman with brown hair and fierce matching eyes, her gear a mirror of Gibbs's. What piqued his interest was the realization that she'd moved to his flank without so much as a sound, or even a sensation of anyone nearby.
"No," Hauser said. "No, he didn't…Iranian?"
The woman remained still, only her lips moving as she replied, "Israeli,"
"Mhm, authentic, too, if your accent's any indication…"
"Alright, that's enough," Gibbs growled. "Put your weapon down, slowly, and put your hands up."
Hauser slowly removed his left hand from his firearm and held it in the air, then began to slowly crouch down, his firearm held flat out before him. He kept his finger off the trigger and on the guard, instead. Once the piece was on the floor, he stood back up and kept his hands in the air.
"Now face me," Gibbs ordered. Hauser complied, turning ninety degrees to his left. Behind him, Ziva grabbed his left wrist with her left hand and pulled behind his lower back. Hauser knew the procedure for cuffing a standing suspect: secure one hand, stow weapon, retrieve cuffs, cuff secured wrist, then secure and cuff other wrist, all while being covered by a partner. Before him, Gibbs kept his SIG aimed squarely at Hauser's chest, his eyes carefully watching for any indication that the SEAL was gonna make a move.
Hauser gave no such sign, even when he heard the sound of metal in leather as the Israeli holstered her own SIG. Once he heard that, his right hand snatched out like a snake, grabbing Gibbs's hands and forcing them to the side and away from him. At the same instant, Hauser threw all of his weight backwards, keeping a tight hold on Gibbs, and dragging him down with him.
Special Agent Ziva David was a strong, capable woman, but her smaller frame was no match for two larger men barreling down on top of her. The breath was knocked out of her with a strong thump as she hit the ground, losing her grip on Hauser's left wrist on the process. The SEAL shoved Gibbs, who was only now starting to gain control, to the side and rolled off Ziva. Hauser's left hand snatched out and pulled, then Gibbs heard the sound of something hitting the ground in the distance as the SEAL tossed something through the basement stairway he'd been ambushed at.
Then Hauser went solely for Ziva, leaping on her and struggling to keep her from grabbing her own SIG. Gibbs sat up and brought his weapon up, only to see the slide and barrel missing, leaving only the grip and the trigger guard for him to hold. He tossed it aside immediately, regained his footing, and leapt onto Hauser. Wrapping one arm under the SEAL's chin and around his neck, and setting the other on top of his head for leverage and a better hold, Gibbs squeezed, applying pressure to the arteries..
Hauser knew he only had so much time before the sleeper hold put him down. If Gibbs was good enough, he only had seconds. Hauser turned his hips slightly to the right, giving his hand access to Gibbs's inner thigh, and squeezed the inguinal area halfway toward the knee. The effect was instantaneous, as Gibbs cried out in pain and released the hold, falling to the floor and gripping his leg.
Hauser took a few deep breaths, trying to get the deprived oxygenated blood back to his brain, then stood when he saw Ziva reaching her feet and drawing her SIG. He lunged and grabbed her hands, twisting her arms in attempt to point the gun away from himself. Ziva tried to go with the momentum of the twist and make him throw himself off, but Hauser was able to catch himself before he elbowed her hands, and kicked the SIG when it landed on the floor. Last either one of them saw it, it slid and disappeared into the kitchen.
The situation became a hand-to-hand fight, and it became fairly obvious to Hauser that this woman must've done something special in Israel, because she clearly knew Krav Maga. Israel was the birthplace of the fighting style, and all soldiers of the IDF learned at least the basics. The techniques she showed as she countered his offense (with moves he himself would then have to counter) were well advanced. She couldn't have been Sayeret, the Israeli Special Forces, because they didn't allow women. Of course she could've learned it here, in the States, if she'd been in the FBI before changing agencies.
The pondering of her roots came back to bite Hauser hard when Ziva's palm broke through his defenses and did a similar number on his nose. The blood hadn't even reached his lips before Ziva pounced, forcing him to the ground. Hauser used the momentum and his legs to throw her off and over.
Gibbs was now trying to stand, but finding it painful to do so. Whatever Hauser had done to his leg had done a number on it. He watched as Ziva charged again, still hoping to press the advantage and keep Hauser from regaining his composure.
On his end of things, the SEAL was finding his actions of the night catching up to him. He needed to mix things up. Keysi it would be. He began countering her moves in a new way, one which even a layman could tell was an entirely different way of fighting. Ziva's mind raced to place the style and was coming up short when Hauser was able to kick her knee out from under her and smack her back. Once she was on the ground, he turned to Gibbs, and saw the agent drawing a back-up revolver from an ankle holster.
Hauser scooped up his USP, rolled into a crouch, and pulled the trigger three times in less than a second.
SNAPSNAP click
The first two .45 caliber rounds fired perfectly, slamming into Gibbs's chest. The agent gasped in surprise and pain as the wind was knocked from him. The impact slammed him into the corner of a thin bookcase. He glanced off it, lost his footing and fell to the floor, and screamed when the offended bookcase fell onto legs, pinning him at the hips.
Hauser, after the click that should've been the headshot, frowned and racked the slide, ejecting the dud. It had just hit the floor and bounced when an angry Israeli woman slammed into him from behind and took him to the floor. His gun landed under him, and before he could even try to get it out, his head was raised and an arm snaked around his neck. But this wasn't a blood choke like Gibbs had tried, this was an air choke.
As he struggled to breathe (and unsurprisingly found that he couldn't) Hauser fought to assess his situation as quickly as he could without panicking, which was starting to become harder to do. He did register two things though: he could feel the front of her torso laying flat on his back (making it even harder to breathe because of what was likely a Kevlar vest), and…yeah, he could feel her warm ragged breath on his right ear.
The SEAL worked his hands out from under him and began groping blindly behind the right side of his head before finally finding the soft skin of her jaw. Guestimating, Hauser threw a blind jab and found her throat. He sucked in a wonderful gush of oxygen when Ziva released him and rolled off, holding her own throat and coughing.
After they both hacked and gagged, they managed to find their footing roughly at the same time. Ziva kicked the USP out of Hauser's hand and went for a punch to his face. But an angry fighter was a sloppy one, and Hauser easily countered, grabbing her wrist and wrenching her arm around behind her. Then he made a precise forearm strike.
The scream she let out came a split second after the sound of arm breaking. That was then followed by the sound of her head impacting with the wall as Hauser shoved her by the back of her neck. She fell to the floor barely conscious, the skin of her forehead broken and causing a red train down her temple and cheek.
Hauser stood, breathing heavily, and had just turned to walk and pick up his USP when he heard the unmistakable click-clack that made every man's testicles shrink in fear.
"Hands up, punk," Warren Hanson said from somewhere behind him. Hauser complied, replicating the pose he had when Ziva had to cuff him. He heard slow, careful footsteps, and the man himself eased his way into the side of Hauser's view, strafing in a combat stance with his shotgun trained on the SEAL who'd come there with intent of murder. Their eyes locked, and neither man broke contact. Hauser's mind already began working, eliminating possible actions since the man wasn't in easy reach.
"Who do you think you are," Hanson said as he continued strafing slowly. "Coming into my home…bringing violence and destruction…Do you realize what you're doing? You're not just throwing your life away, you're spitting in the face of everything you stand for, as a Navy man, and as a SEAL."
It seemed Hanson's words were getting the better of his actions, as he took a step closer.
"Hanson," Gibbs croaked, trying to warn him, but the trapped agent went unheard. He turned, saw his back-up revolver, and reached for it. He stomach dropped when he saw the mere millimeters between his fingers and the weapon.
"I was Army, but I worked with SEALs, I know what the Navy Core Values are: Honor, Courage, and Commitment. You're committed, I'll give you that, but there's no honor in this, and you sure as hell aren't showing courage."
Another step…one more and Hauser would easily be able to get his hands on the weapon pointed at his chest. He kept his face focused, but inside, he was smiling that predator's smile. Just one more step…
"Hanson!" Gibbs tried again, and again, he went unheard. He doubled his struggles, but his reach didn't get any closer.
"No, this is cowardice," Hanson growled. "You lurk through the shadows, ambushing men who aren't even in a combat zone, never giving them a chance. We gave the gooks better treatment, and it disgusts me that you'd do worse than that to American citizens you swore to fight for."
Another step.
"Hanson!"
"I oughta shoot you right now on principle," Hanson growled.
For one beat, there was no response. Then Hauser's mouthed curled into that grin…
If he were at peak condition, Hauser would've been able to disarm Hanson and have him on the ground under his foot before the man could even think of pulling the trigger. But with his ass beaten as it was, blood covering the side of his head and everything under his nostrils, he was only able to get his hands under the shotgun and point it up and away from him when Hanson's reflexes pulled the trigger.
BOOM
The weapon's kick, combined with the angle it was pointed and the grip (or lack thereof) said angle allowed Hanson, broke the retired colonel's index finger into a mangled mess, broke his collarbone as the stock chipped it, and threw him back. An unprepared Hauser felt his muscles burn as his hands were wrenched awkwardly by the shotgun, and he found himself falling into his target. For a moment, the two men tried to untangle themselves, but despite his battered condition, Hauser was the younger and faster man, and he was able to knock the shotgun away, gain a mounted position, and threw a few good punches until the retired colonel no longer struggled.
Hauser sat there, breathing heavily, before standing. He looked to Gibbs and saw him struggling to reach the revolver before calmly walking over and using the tip of his boot to gently nudge the weapon just an inch further away. He then turned, walked to and picked up his USP, and came back to the downed Hanson. He stood there, staring down at the beaten man before him and breathing heavily. His face remained bland as he pointed the USP at him.
"Their names," Hauser said. "Were Michael Cheritto, Melvin Schif, and Max Fanning. They were my team, and they're waiting for you in Hell."
BANGBANGBANG
Hauser jerked repeatedly as three holes popped in the front of his shirt, blood spattering the air before him before he fell to the ground on his back.
In the doorway to the kitchen stood Timothy McGee, the SIG shaking in his bloody hands. If Vince Hauser looked bad, then the agent himself looked like utter shit. He lowered the weapon and limped across the floor, past a stunned Gibbs and a barely stirring Ziva. He came to stand over Hauser, who was coughing and struggling to breathe through the holes in his chest and the blood in his mouth.
For a moment, Hauser and McGee only looked at each other, before McGee finally spoke.
"Amazing how underdogs win so much, huh Vince."
For a moment, the SEAL only looked at the agent towering over him. Then he remembered his words in the alley so long ago and smiled. Then he began chuckling, and finally laughing a deep raspy laugh. He heard the sounds of cars screeching outside, doors opening and shutting, feet running and voices shouting as men rushed in, all as Hauser laughed until the darkness took him.