Call me unpredictable

Tell me I'm impractical

Cahn & Van Heusen

Tony leaned against the wall of the club.

"There's nothing here. It's a group of guys out for a good time. And thank Christ someone is."

Gibbs' voice crackled in his ear.

"Sorry Boss." He tried to be persuasive. "We should call it. Find another angle."

He had come outside, ostensibly, to check in and hoped Gibbs would listen to his recommendation. Tony closed his eyes, seriously considering whether he could talk Martinez into spiking his next drink with a shot of vodka. Alcohol on the job was, naturally, prohibited. He hadn't realized how rattled he was, after the encounter with Ziva, until he was standing here – allowing the cool, still air to clear his thoughts. Eventually, he re-entered the club, reluctantly, convinced it was an exercise in futility. Noticing their table of suspects had disappeared, Tony scanned the room for Ziva. She was nowhere in sight. Vague unease took hold and he located Martinez.

"Where's Zee-vah?"

Martinez gave Tony a quizzical look.

"We could be in play. I was just coming to find you…."

"Where is she?"

Tony abruptly halted the explanation and the FBI agent was startled by the urgency in his voice. An intelligent, capable man; from his perspective the case had taken a positive turn.

"They've moved to a private room – upstairs – we might get something."

Tony shook his head.

"No, we won't." He thought for a moment. "Shit."

"Sitrep?" The calm inquiry indicating Gibbs was bothered by the development; not unduly but sufficient to put Tony on notice.

"Working on it."

Tony didn't have a sitrep. Standing at the bar, he listened as Martinez updated him. The targets had hooked up with others in the club. The contractor, Harris, never appeared. At least ten guys and eight girls were ensconced upstairs. Ziva was in the middle of it. How; Tony wasn't quite sure because this wasn't supposed to happen. Ziva hadn't used the duress word; which, in his opinion, signified absolutely nothing. The only circumstances under which he could conceive of her using a duress word would be if she were interrogated on her emotions. Tony surmised her independent streak had influenced events.

He knew she wasn't armed; knew that was somewhat irrelevant. Knew if they discovered she was bugged, Ziva would be in trouble. Earlier in the evening, one man had caught Tony's attention. A huge guy, easily 6' 6" - built like he had been hewn from Mt. Rushmore leftovers – plus he was with his buddies. Tony had noticed immediately the guy was unhealthily attracted to Ziva; he couldn't take his eyes off her. Something in the way the man had grabbed another girl set alarms shrieking in Tony's head; this one liked to hurt them. Tony assessed the options; certain there were no arms being dealt in this scenario. Nevertheless, there was the problem of jeopardizing the FBI's investigation with a full-scale bust – unless necessary. Gibbs' next communication nearly perforated an ear-drum.

"Get her out of there, DiNozzo."

The crunch of Ziva's link, as it was crushed converted mild trepidation into outright apprehension.

Ziva analyzed her position. She was unconcerned; Tony was downstairs, plus two FBI agents. Gibbs, McGee and more were outside - even if none of that were true, she wouldn't have been concerned. This was her element. She had calculated possible exit strategies and routes – including two windows. She had inventoried items available for use as weapons. Of the ten men in the room, four were too drunk to pose a credible threat. Three were of average height, weight and, she estimated, fighting prowess. Two were bigger and carried themselves with the air of experienced, capable adversaries. One of these was wearing a gun. She had discounted the girls as unlikely to become involved. Finally, there was the enormous guy who had just hit her. The one Tony had warned her about; O'Brien. Ziva was intimidated neither by his size, nor his overtly domineering manner.

On overhearing plans for the private party, Ziva had encouraged his attention. She utilized his interest to ensure an invite; sitting with him, flirting and playing the game. Sweetly compliant as he slipped an arm around her, a little too tightly, and guided her upstairs. Deciding to invoke Rule #18; she would seek forgiveness later rather than ask for Gibbs' blessing to alter the plan. The possibility for making some, any, headway in the tiresome case canceled any misgivings over exceeding the parameters of the operation. Or that she was in direct contravention of Tony's advice. Ziva had succeeded in noting several names. Watching the participants and listening to conversations, she concluded - as Tony had done solely on intuition – the gathering was no meeting of conspirators. There was nothing more to be gained by lingering; it was time to leave.

Discreetly Ziva had moved toward the door; until O'Brien trapped her in a corner. His rough advances dislodged the wire and it dropped to the floor. Ziva's Mossad background allowed her to remain self-possessed and not panic. She simply adjusted her exit strategy to accommodate a new situation. Swiftly creating an opportunity to escape; with the sultry suggestion, in heavily accented, broken English, of further intimacy on a sofa - aided by drinks. The levelheaded bluff nearly worked. As Ziva feigned a trip in the direction of the bar, O'Brien spotted the fallen device. Once realization set in, he brought his foot down on it and trailed after Ziva. Tapping Pierce, the man with the gun, and indicating he should follow. Unaware she was compromised; Ziva unhurriedly made for the door. If she hadn't paused to pick-pocket a suspect's smartphone, Ziva would have evaded him. The delay as she concealed the cell was the mistake which enabled O'Brien to catch up with her. He yanked her around into the entrance hallway, slamming her against the wall. Hot-tempered and only too happy to inflict pain, he struck her face.

"Explain." Holding the shattered pieces of the bug in the palm of his hand; Pierce, at first, had brushed off his friend's signal and O'Brien impatiently motioned for him to join them.

Ziva said nothing. She surveyed him; coolly taking a breath as if she were relaxing. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed Pierce's progression through the room. She had sized up O'Brien and was waiting for the other man to draw level before kick-starting the chain reaction. Mentally, Ziva was already focused two stages into the fight. O'Brien smacked her across the face with the back of his hand for the second time.

"I said explain, bitch." A bully by nature, he was confused by her eerie calm and unfazed demeanor.

"Touch me again and I will castrate you."

The icy menace was as unexpected as her flawless command of language. Gone was the eager-to-please exotic whore; supplanted by something reminiscent of a rattler twitching its tail.

At the same time Tony lurched through the door.

"Oh hey guys. Guess this isn't the head."

He was disheveled, reeking of whisky; every inch the inebriated lothario. He took a few steps forward; directing a dazzling smile and a leering look at a very pretty, very tipsy girl passing the opposite doorway.

"Hi Sweetcheeks."

The majority of the raucous partygoers in the main, inner, space hadn't notice the commotion. With O'Brien's attention diverted, Ziva darted around him. To Tony's annoyance, she proceeded in the opposite direction; away from him and the exit. In anticipation of a move to grab her, Tony placed himself directly in the big man's path - an unmistakable challenge. All the more surprising because Tony was suddenly stone-cold sober.

"Well, look who took 'Supersize Me' as an order."

Easily ducking O'Brien's first punches and connecting with one of his own. The reason for Ziva's detour became apparent. Pierce, already en route, had quickened his pace at Tony's dramatic entrance. He pushed the pretty girl out of his way, arm reaching toward Tony.

"This is a priv…."

In the space of a blurred instant, Ziva was blocking him. Her left hand bracing the shoulder of his outstretched limb as, using momentum against him, her right bent his fingers back and twisted his wrist. He recoiled in pain. Ziva let go; only to clamp fingers, with vise-like force, around Pierce's windpipe and deftly drew his gun with her other hand. Shoving him away, as he clutched his throat; coughing and off-balance. Before O'Brien could launch another assault at Tony, she had pivoted.

"I would not if I were you."

With a chillingly arch smile and raised eyebrow; the look in her eyes convincing O'Brien she would squeeze the trigger in less than a heartbeat if he moved. The whole process had lasted seconds; the reflexive movements unleashed with perfect timing and efficient execution. Ziva stood, steadily aiming the gun, serene and not even out of breath; the embodiment of divinely attractive, dangerous grace.

Tony had coordinated the intervention with the two FBI agents. 'Security' personnel arrived on the scene, virtually immediately. Supposedly breaking up an altercation caused by crashers to a private party; hustling Tony and Ziva out before shock wore off and too many questions were asked.

"I got her, Boss." Tony kept hold of Ziva, by the arm, as he marched her outside through an emergency exit. Once at ground level, clear of the building, he spun her around to face him.

"Observe and report, Zee-vah. Need me to translate that for you 'cause, obviously, you didn't fucking understand the English instructions?"

His overwhelming relief mitigated the harsh words a little; although it was clear Tony was less than pleased. Ziva's adrenaline rush was yet to subside and she was unapologetic. She flaunted the smartphone with a flourish as if she had won a prize.

"I did observe, Tony. I have yet to make my report on the information I obtained."

There were times when he felt like throttling her for this attitude and others when he found it unquestionably hot. On this occasion it was the former. Suddenly aware they had an audience in Gibbs, who had performed his usual trick of appearing out of thin air, and McGee who must have slipstreamed in his wake, Tony let the subject drop. He flexed his fingers – O'Brien's jaw was undoubtedly made of granite.

"Jesus, Zee-vah, I doubt that guy's even evolved opposable thumbs."

She laughed; the potential for an argument dissipated by the joke. At the car, he tossed Ziva the keys. She was amazed, Tony rarely let her drive.

"We get stopped, the LEOs 'll think DUI and I don't want to waste time on explanations." He shrugged in resignation. "Of course we're more likely to be stopped with you driving."

"Why do you smell as if you have bathed in Scotch?" Ziva wrinkled her nose.

In the formulation of his hasty plan, Tony had applied the liquor as an impromptu aftershave, splashed some on his shirt and gargled with it. He'd also permitted himself one, good swallow in the event he had to take on O'Brien.

"So they'd buy I was drunk 'til I found you."

"Clever." Under the asylum provided by the darkness of the car's interior Ziva graciously acknowledged Tony's aid. "Thank you for having my back."

Her buzz was abating and Ziva's conscience niggled. After all, he had warned her. She was confident she would have effected an escape without his assistance – though perhaps with a few more bruises. There was a cost to the admission; total self-reliance was a crucial component to her identity. The gratification afforded by Tony's presence in her life was unnerving.

"Someone has to. 'Cause you sure as hell don't."

There was a hint of reprimand in his voice. Tony's cell rang and he retrieved it; turning away from Ziva when he saw the caller I.D.

"Yeah… maybe, it'll be late though."

Ziva made a high speed left on a light which had changed to red two seconds earlier; refocusing the creeping disconsolation which exposed feelings she would prefer remain unexamined. She knew why Tony didn't want to be delayed.