A/N - thank you for the lovely reviews. I 'm glad people are enjoying reading this. I wish I could say things were going to get better for Jen - but it's fun to torture her. Sorry about the evil cliff hanger at the end of the last part. I'm afraid I can't promise never to do such a thing again.

Seeing Red – part 5

The ambulance door slammed shut and Jen watched its departure with a sense of relief – they'd got to McGuigan in time, it would be all right. She shivered and pulled the NCIS issue jacket she was wearing tighter around her. It was a late September evening – the fact that she was shivery had nothing to do with shock and everything to do with the distinct chill in the night air. That and the fact that she'd discarded her shirt as soon as she'd realised it was soaked with someone else's blood. On the list of things she wasn't ready to think about right now was the look on Gibbs' face when he had thought the blood was hers. In her opinion the list was becoming entirely too long.

A trip to collect some clean clothes and a file for a meeting the following day had gone disastrously wrong. She had been mentally berating herself for cowardice, because she'd opted to spend another night on her office couch. But that had been forgotten when the first shot had rung out, burnt away in the rapid, desperate retreat from the man who had waited in the darkness and taken another life before her very eyes.

Crosby had been killed as soon as he stepped out of the car; McGuigan had taken a shot to the shoulder as he'd tried to cover her. She'd been the one to return fire, dragging him with her into the house, aware that could easily be what their assailant had intended, but equally clear they had no other choice. She wished she could claim she had been smart, or even lucky – but the truth was he'd let them get away.

She wanted to believe Jethro when he said that Bradley Fraiser wasn't in control of this situation, but just at the moment the evidence tended to point the other way. And one of the things she'd learnt during the time he'd been training her was to study the evidence.

She found her former partner easily despite the crowd of agents in the driveway. It had taken a relatively short time for help to arrive and now there were representatives from all three agencies buzzing around. Despite that, there was little doubt that Gibbs and his team were firmly in control, they had made sure the scene was secure and were also leading the search for evidence. No one, not even Fornell, was making much of an attempt to challenge jurisdiction now. She guessed that all the other agencies had determined that if she got killed they would be able to hold up their hands and let NCIS take the blame.

She crossed the driveway to join him, politically astute enough to know that not everyone here was watching her back. Some people were waiting to see if she cracked. She was sure they were already preparing the sympathetic remarks, the regretful murmurings that, after all, a woman really couldn't cut it in a role like this.

"You get checked out?" he asked, looking towards the tail-lights of the ambulance, even though the most serious injury she'd sustained was a small cut on her cheek from flying glass.

"You find any casings?" She countered, waiting to see how he would respond.

"Three," he pointed to a spot on the driveway. She turned, taking in the sweep on the drive, seeing it in terms of angles and trajectories. "The car headlights would have missed him, there was no way you could have seen him. Once Crosby got out he was easily in the line of fire. It's not the hardest shot in the world."

"You think he was waiting for me?"

"It is your house, but he doesn't want to kill you." He was right, she realised, killing Crosby was another way of applying pressure to her. The death of anyone who had contact with her would have sufficed. Her throat tightened at the thought of how close she'd come to asking Cynthia to run this errand for her, of what might have happened if it hadn't been Neomi's day off.

She shook the troubling thoughts off, trying to maintain some focus, concentrating on the essentials. "Someone should talk to the press," she said – knowing there was no chance at all this would slide past them.

"Not you," he responded quickly, "use a spokesperson. If you do it, he's going to see you and think you're sending him a message."

"It's my job," she hissed back, already hating how this case had the potential to send her to the sidelines.

"Not today," she narrowed her eyes, preparing to overrule him, but he tilted his head to look at her and she could tell that he really meant it, that he wasn't just being difficult. She took a breath and reminded herself that with Gibbs you had to pick your battles.

"Fine."

"Gibbs," Ziva appeared beside them, "we found something. Another letter." She started to follow them indoors, half expecting him to object and this time perfectly prepared to debate the point and win. But all he said was,

"There are gloves in the pocket," making her realise that when she'd taken her shirt off he'd handed her his own jacket.

The letter was propped against the antique mirror that stood over the fireplace in the living room. She recognised the neat printing of her name and realised that this was the first time one of Fraiser's letters had directly reached it's intended recipient. It was hard to imagine how she'd feel now, if this had been dragging on for months, if she'd been living with the knowledge of her stalker from the moment he'd first contacted her.

What would she have done if she'd known about her stalker before he'd killed anyone? Would she have seen him as a risk, would any of them? Or would the letters have become a joke, an inconvenience. She glanced over at Jethro as he pulled on latex gloves and started to open the letter. If he'd known what was going on months ago would he have been worried? But there were no answers to such questions and she knew better than to try to find them.

A Polaroid slipped out from beneath the folded sheet of paper and Gibbs turned it over. Jen froze, the blood suddenly thundering in her ears and drowning out everything else. Twenty minutes earlier she'd been decisive and alert in a crisis, but right now she wasn't entirely sure her legs could be trusted to hold her up. She must have gasped because his eyes shot to her.

"Director?" She reached for the photograph but his fingers gripped her wrist, arresting her movement, and the jolt from their contact was enough to shake her out of her stupor.

"I know her," she looked down at the woman in the photograph and knew she should have thought of this as soon as she'd heard where Fraiser worked. "She works for Sec Nav, her name is Colette Andrews. I remember her, because our hair colour was similar."

She thought about what she knew about Andrews, wishing she could say she'd liked the woman. But, in truth, she'd found her breathless, little girl voice extremely grating and whenever they had been in the same meeting she'd wondered how anyone could use a keyboard, or do anything at all, with such ridiculously long fingernails. But that didn't mean she wished her dead. And she had little doubt that the woman in the photograph was dead.

Gibbs opened the letter, it's message brief and to the point – which made it worse somehow. 'Poor Colette, she really doesn't look that much like you, apart from her hair. In life she was rather nondescript, but now you'll never forget her. She died because of your stubbornness. This is so unnecessary, stop fighting me, just surrender." It wasn't signed, but then none of the letters had been signed. And the message was all too clear.

She pulled her wrist out of Gibbs' grasp, suddenly furious with all of them and herself most of all. "Find him!" She snapped, not caring that they weren't alone, not caring that this was evidence of a loss of control her political enemies would surely use against her, "find him and stop him Jethro. Or I swear I will!"

"Stay with her," Gibbs said to DiNozzo, who had arrived in time to move rapidly out of the Director's way as she stormed from the room. "I'm serious – don't let her out of your sight for a second."

"She's not going to want a babysitter…"

"DiNozzo!" He didn't want to hear excuses, he wanted someone he trusted with Jen, someone she trusted.

"Yes boss," Tony held his hands up in surrender and shot Ziva a look that said 'good luck' before retreating.

"Do you think she means it?" Fornell asked quietly, Gibbs had almost forgotten he had followed them inside – but it was a good question. The very last thing they needed now was a rogue Jen Shepard. She'd calm down, he told himself; remember who she was and why she couldn't go out and look for Fraiser herself. But he knew that what she'd threatened was exactly what he'd do in her place – and, since he'd trained her, he also knew just how capable she was of making good on her threat.

"Not planning on finding out." He looked back at the photo and sighed, another body, another crime scene. "Ziva – get a copy of this photo out to Metro PD and then over to Abby. See if she can identify the body's location from the landmarks or the view. Then see if you can trace Simmonds' movements, I want to know where she lives, when she was last seen. Everything" She nodded and hurried off. He was grateful for her lack of comment, that at least someone had not felt the need to ask him if he was OK.

His cell rang and he grimaced when he recognised the number, this was not the best moment to have a conversation with Sec Nav, especially given the news he had to impart. Under normal circumstances this would be Jen's job, in fact he wondered why he was the one getting the call and hoped she didn't find out.

The conversation was worse than he'd expected – although blessedly brief. He confirmed that they had lost an agent at the scene, that another was injured, though expected to recover. He briefly described the Director's actions and that she was unharmed – he didn't add that she was pissed as hell, but suspected Sec Nav got the message anyway. Then it got difficult. In response to a question about possible suspects he had to mention Fraiser, describe what they had found at his apartment and then he talked about the letter left at the Director's house, the photograph of Colette Andrews. There was, he added, a strong possibility that Andrews was dead and it was Fraiser they were looking for in connection with the crime. It was pretty much a conversation killer.

"You got off light," Tobias commented when the call ended. Gibbs shrugged,

"Or we're not done yet." Sadly, this was one of the occasions when he was proven right.

He was outside talking to Ducky when his cell phone rang again, it showed a number he didn't recognise and for a moment he debated not answering. But the moment passed and he flipped open the phone and pressed it to his ear, "Gibbs."

His listened to the voice on the other end in growing disbelief, surely this was a particularly badly timed joke? Or not. Was it Ziva who had said that Jen was extremely well connected? At the time he'd agreed with her analysis but not really thought about the consequences. Now those consequences were hammering him over the head.

The orders he was being given were ones that he didn't agree with. But, someone he was fairly sure it wasn't prudent to argue with was giving them. Not that he allowed that to stop him, for all the good it did. He really disliked politicians.

Jen had taken refuge in her study – though under the circumstances it wasn't offering much in the way of sanctuary. It was too late for that. She wasn't surprised to hear the knock on the door, which didn't mean she had any intention of answering it. Of course Gibbs had ordered someone to stay with her, if only to ensure she had some form of protection. On another day she might have been amused to see who had drawn the short straw, but when Tony slid into the room she couldn't even rouse herself to turn around a look at him.

So she ignored him, gazing out of the windows, which overlooked the back of the house. The garden was dark and still, blissfully removed from the jarring chaos of her driveway. If only she wasn't beginning to be scared of what the shadows held, it would be perfect.

"This might help," DiNozzo pressed a glass of brandy into her hands and she took it, knowing it was probably what she needed – but resenting that he had seen that need. She was still angry, the tantrum hadn't even taken the edge of it. She held the heavy glass in her hand and wondered if it would help to fling it across the room, smash it to a million pieces. Not that she would allow herself to lose control twice in such a short period of time.

"I don't need to be supervised in my own home."

"Just following orders Director, you know how Gibbs is."

"Well, try to be as unobtrusive as possible." Even as she said it she thought what she was asking. DiNozzo had probably never been unobtrusive in the whole course of his life and it seemed highly unlikely that he would succeed now. "I'm serious Agent DiNozzo, I don't want to talk, I don't need to be looked after and I can't help feeling that your talents would be better used trying to track down Fraiser."

"So, you're just going to hold onto all of this, act as though it's having no effect on you?"

"I'm going to do my job." She ground out.

"That's the Director speaking. Do you think it's the Director that Fraiser wants, or the woman who hides behind her?" She hadn't expected him to ask that question, hadn't expected him to have that much insight or courage. But it was convenient to treat him as though he had no substance, to not see past the bravado. It was because she felt guilty for falling into the trap that she let herself answer him.

"I don't know, I'm not sure that he does."

"And you won't let go – even for a second?"

"I can't."

"You need to rest," he had leaned close because they were speaking quietly. She had no illusions that he felt anything for her, except perhaps a lingering awareness that in some way they were alike. But, to the next person to walk into the room their conversation probably looked more, intimate than it actually was. Unfortunately that person was Gibbs.

"I told you not to let her out of your sight DiNozzo, I didn't know your eyesight was that bad." Tony actually blanched, which would have amused her if she didn't have a few other things on her mind right now.

"Boss, I was just, I'm going to – go and check how Ziva's doing."

"You do that."

There was a moment of silence, Jen sipped her brandy and watched Gibbs. His expression was revealing, if you knew what to look for. Something or someone had made him angry. "Something you need to tell me, Agent Gibbs?"

"I was going to ask you that. I've just received new orders – your personal safety is apparently more important than the successful conclusion of this investigation. And that safety is now my direct responsibility. Anything I need related to that, I only have to ask for. The only condition is I have to get you away from here and to somewhere safe."

"No," it was out of the question that she would submit to being sent away like a errant child, tucked out of sight for what could be weeks, if not months.

"I don't think it's up for debate."

"You can't tell me you think this is a good idea?"

"I'm following orders," she supposed there had to be a first time for everything.

"The last time I checked I was the Director of NCIS, I'm ordering you not to do this." He shook his head, almost managing to look sympathetic.

"Jen, do you seriously think that we would be having this conversation if the orders hadn't come from someone who outranks you? Your safety is apparently a matter of national security – highest possible priority." She laughed, a harsh bitter sound that should have scared her,

"It's got nothing to do with national security – it's politics!" She put the glass down on the desk and paced back and forwards. "I'm not accepting this." She ran through her options; she could resign, go to the press, make one hell of a fuss. She regretted the necessity of ruining her career, but it couldn't be helped.

When he stepped into her path she came to an abrupt halt, he was perhaps a little too close for comfort. "Don't do this," he said, without bothering to explain how he knew what she'd been thinking. "Don't throw everything away."

She started to speak, started to tell him that she would do what she thought best, that it was her life, her career. She might even have reminded him that he'd taught her to follow her instincts, taught her that no matter what stood in your way you had to get to the end of the investigation. But then he leaned closer still, brushed his fingers across her cheek and said the one thing that could still stop her in her tracks. "Trust me."

Mike Franks stretched; he was seated on the deck of his cabin, enjoying the cool of the night and the sound of the waves pounding the beach. It was late, almost midnight – but he was thinking about having another beer. There was no reason not to; his retirement meant there was no need to get up early in the morning, no one giving him orders.

Just as he decided that perhaps another beer was in order the air around him seemed to shift and, all at once, the ocean wasn't the only thing he could hear. It took him a moment, but before it came into sight he recognised the low roar of a helicopter overhead. Wary now, he watched with growing disbelief as the helicopter lowered to the beach, its descent kicking up sand.

He pushed himself to his feet, knowing that his shot gun wasn't too far out of reach – but not certain yet that he would need it. Helicopters did not regularly land on the beach within sight of his home. He didn't need his investigator's instinct to tell him something was up.

He relaxed slightly when he recognised the tall figure that leapt from the helicopter. If Gibbs was here, it probably wasn't all bad; he thought it unlikely that the probie was here to arrest him. As he watched Gibbs pulled out a couple of bags, before reaching over to help another passenger climb out. Mike wasn't close enough to see the second person, now standing on the beach – though he could tell it was a woman. He thought he saw a flash of red in the helicopter's lights and he sighed, in his experience red heads and Gibbs always meant trouble.

From a safe distance his two visitors watched the helicopter depart before turning and starting to walk towards his cabin. Franks didn't feel the need to move, especially since now he could see who the woman was. Which didn't mean he had any idea what the Director of NCIS was doing on a beach in Mexico.

He watched their progress, they weren't talking, weren't even looking at each other. His eyes widened when he noticed the holster Gibbs wore and then realised that the Director was armed as well. What the hell was going on?

"Probie," he said by way of greeting.

"Mike,"

"That was quite an entrance,"

"We borrowed the transport, from a friend." Franks followed Gibbs' gaze as it slid to the Director; he didn't like the hollow look in her eyes, or the tension that emanated from her body. He didn't know the woman, but it didn't take much to realise that something was very wrong.

"What are you doing here Jethro?"

"We need a safe place to stay,"

"Who'd she piss off?" He jerked his head towards Shepard, not for a moment doubting that she was at the bottom of this and then almost reeled from the banked fury in her eyes.

"I told you this was a bad idea," she said, turning to Gibbs. Mike couldn't even interpret the look they exchanged, but she sighed, backing off. "You tell him."

"Somebody needs to – what the hell is going on probie?"

"It's a long story."

TBC