A/N - thanks for the reviews. I had some trouble with this chapter - being British I was concered that we call our campus buildings by slightly different names - so I understand if you have no clue what I am going on about. Also, I know I'm ignoring locations, distances and security processes for the convenience of the story - sorry.

Seeing Red – part 9

"What else did she say?" Gibbs demanded. The sighting had been a false alarm, a mistake by an over-zealous traffic cop. It wasn't even a set-up intended to leave Jen exposed; just a stupid mistake; nothing more than bad luck and worse timing. They'd been just about to head back to base when Ziva called,

"She said, rule number 7 applies." Her voice was distorted through the speaker phone – but even so the strain was apparent. Gibbs could see her point; she'd stood by as the Director of NCIS gave herself up to a vicious stalker – the only justification that she'd been ordered to do so by the woman herself. He knew it must have been difficult for her, he'd considered who would be most able to handle the possibility when he'd decided who to send with Jen. He wasn't sure Ziva would ever thank him for that dubious honour.

"Is 7 the one about coffee?" Tony enquired quietly – making him regret putting the call on speaker so they could all hear it.

"No DiNozzo – it's not the one about coffee."

"Rule number 7 is 'always be specific when you lie,'" McGee offered and no one, not even Tony, had a smart come back for that.

"Get Abby on the phone," Gibbs said over his shoulder, stamping down on the impulse to jump into the car and head off in pursuit – not least because he had no idea where Jen and Fraiser were heading. "Ziva, you did the right thing. It's what we planned." For now he ignored the fact that the plan had also involved him being with her when she confronted Fraiser.

"What do you want me to do now?" Ziva asked.

"Stay where you are until we call you with a location," he glanced over towards McGee as he ended the call, "is that Abby?" He accepted McGee's phone; "talk to me Abs."

"The trace is active – I'm patching it through to McGee's phone, you'll be able to track her." At least something had gone right, they had a way of finding her – she hadn't vanished off the face of the earth.

"Thank you,"

"She'll be OK Gibbs,"

"I know." He handed the phone back to McGee so Abby could explain what she was sending him.

"You put a trace on the Director?" DiNozzo said, "did you tell her?"

"What do you think?" Tony shrugged and on any other day Gibbs might have slapped him – but he didn't have time for the reprimand. Instead he looked over at McGee; "do you have it?"

"Yes boss,"

"OK lets go – McGee, you're with me." He was halfway to his car when he realised McGee wasn't following him. "Now McGee!"

"Just a minute boss," he was gazing at the data on his phone, his concentration apparant, "Abby and I have spent a lot of time studying Fraiser, we know his movements – he might go somewhere familiar."

"He's been out of sight for two days," DiNozzo countered, "we've looked in all the places he usually goes and haven't been able to find him. And right now we don't need to." McGee stood his ground,

"But, if we can use what we know about him alongside the trace we might be able to work out his destination. If we do that we can go straight there – we won't need to follow the trace."

"And how do you suggest we do that probie, we aren't psychic?" Gibbs listened to the by-play, concentrating on McGee. He was biting his lip, studying the information from the trace, but he looked as though he knew what he was doing. Every second they stood around was time that Jen would have to maintain her act, he was taking a calculated risk – and not with his own life.

"McGee," he said, "the Director's good but let's not rely on her ability to get Fraiser to trust her for too long, no one's that good. If she manages to persuade him to release the hostage, she'll have to try to get away from him. He won't let her go easily."

"Sick bastard," Tony muttered – a sentiment that Gibbs shared, but didn't want to dwell on right now.

"Clock's ticking McGee."

"The Naval War College," he said abruptly, "they're heading in that direction, they could still turn off – but,"

"It's where he first saw her." He nodded, certain that Fraiser would be pulled by the symbolism of the location. "Good call Tim."

As he drove McGee sat beside him, studying the trace in case their guess was wrong, he didn't say much and Gibbs was grateful he realised that this was not a time for ideal conversation. All the time he drove he was thinking about Jen and calculating – what she could say, what she might have to do, how long she'd be able to hold on.

Jen thought her heartbeat sounded loud in the silence of the SUV and she was surprised that no one else seemed able to hear it. Fraiser had been silent as she manoeuvred through the rush hour traffic – except to give her occasional directions. He must know that people were going to be searching for the car and it was starting to worry her that they had not changed vehicles yet. The optimist in her wanted to believe that this meant their destination was not too far away – and that help would be able to get their sooner. But that voice was a quiet one, drowned out by other, far darker thoughts.

He was so intent, so resolute that she was starting to be frightened of what might happen when they reached wherever he was heading for. This, she told herself, was a hell of a time to realise what she had got into. Her only comfort was the small metallic device that Abby had taped to her hip before she left for the ZNN interview. It was the key to rescue, transmitting her location to Abby – to Jethro and the others. She wasn't alone. And the small knife taped to her back meant that she had a way to defend herself, if it became necessary. Though she knew that a knife would offer little protection against a bullet.

When, eventually, they reached their destination she decided that if she got out of this alive, she was going to make sure security at the Naval War College received a serious up grade. There was no way Fraiser should have been able to gain access so easily and he absolutely shouldn't have been able to get into the lecture hall by the small service entrance. She looked over at Paige who'd been blindfolded and who they were now leading through the deserted corridors; she could hear her quiet sobs and knew she was terrified. Silently she promised the girl that she would get her out of this.

"This is where I saw you for the first time," Fraiser said as he led both women through a final door. Jen turned, finding herself on the stage of the lecture hall, looking out at the tiered rows of seating. She remembered the evening all too clearly - until this began it had been a good memory, an accomplishment she was proud of. She fought back the shiver that crept up her spine; because this wasn't a hiding place or a stop along the journey. This was a place to make a statement – and the thought of what that statement might be scared the hell out of her. "All I could think about was how beautiful you were and that I had to find a way to talk to you." He hadn't touched her yet, but now his fingertips traced along the curve of her cheek. It was a lovers gesture and she let her eyes slide shut so he wouldn't see the revulsion in them.

"We're talking now," she said, hoping that he didn't hear the way her voice trembled, or if he did that he interpreted it as a reaction to his caress.

"It's too late now." She shook her head.

"It's not too late – let Paige go and we'll disappear together, just you and me." She lifted her hand to where his still rested on her cheek. "It's my fault, let me make it up to you." She was playing for time now, prepared to do anything to draw this out, to give help time to arrive. But it seemed that nothing she said or did could change his mind.

"They won't let us be together. There's no other way."

"I don't understand." He still had a gun; she couldn't risk trying to get away from him when he might still shoot Paige. He'd brought a backpack with him and as she watched he pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"I want to drink to us – to our life together." The wine was drugged, she knew it as soon as she saw that the bottle had been opened and the cork jammed into the top. She remembered the sleeping tablets that they'd found in the systems of some of the other victims and the realisation slammed into her full force. This was a murder suicide. He was going to kill her and then kill himself in some mistaken belief that they'd be together forever. Anger swamped her fear – she'd see him in hell before she'd let him do that. "It won't hurt, I promise – I'd never hurt you."

"Don't do this," she breathed, moving closer to him.

"I have to." He knelt, and she let him draw her down with him, not protesting, as it was easier to reach the knife from this position. She couldn't wait for rescue now, "drink the wine Jen." When she hesitated he lifted his arm, pointing the gun at the place Paige huddled on the floor. "Drink the wine," he repeated.

She took a breath and slowly raised the glass of red wine to her lips; he watched, looking almost entranced as she took one swallow – then another. There was no doubt that he was as much in love with death as he was in love with her. Holding his gaze with her own, drawing out every moment she carefully edged her free hand back, inching up her jacket and shirt to reach the knife taped just beneath her shoulders.

It came away easily and she shifted the knife in her hand to get a better grip, praying that the sweat on her palm wouldn't make it too slippery – she was only going to get one chance with this. In a single, fluid moment she threw the remains of the wine in Fraiser's face and as he reared away from her she stabbed him in the thigh. His arm jerked and she slammed her shoulder into him as he howled with pain. She grabbed for the gun as he let go, but she missed and it slid across the floor out of reach. She pulled the knife free and aimed for his arm, stabbing him again – knowing that unless she got lucky and hit an artery the injuries wouldn't impede him.

She skidded over to Paige and pulled the blindfold off before freeing her hands with the bloodied knife. "Go," she ordered, pulling the girl to her feet almost roughly and pushing her towards the door they'd come in through. She didn't waste time seeing that she obeyed the order, Fraiser was on his feet now and she had to get to him before he found the gun.

"You bitch," he rammed into her before she turned and together they fell to the ground, her head hit the stage and she saw stars, the knife slipping from her fingers as the weight of his body pushed the air from her lungs. She struggled and fought with everything she had. She had no idea how much of the drug she'd ingested, how long before it started to have an effect.

She jabbed her knee into his groin, his hold loosening for long enough to allow her twist from his grasp. He caught her leg and she fell again – then kicked out, scrambling away from him in the momentary freedom she gained. Her only option was to run forward, to fling herself off the stage, wrenching her ankle as she landed heavily and then sprinting for the stairs and the exit sign at the top.

She just had to fight for a little longer, help was on the way, Jethro wouldn't leave her to die.

The last thing Gibbs heard as they burst through the doors that lead to the lecture hall was the sound of sirens – but they couldn't afford to wait for reinforcements. McGee was in his good books right now, because his guess about Fraiser's destination had been dead on and they'd made good time getting here. Time that could have been lost, if they'd had to negotiate with the college authorities to gain entry. But he'd had Tony call ahead and as a result they'd gained access to the campus easily. And Jen's trace had led them to the right building.

He didn't want to think about how recklessly Ziva must have driven to get here in time to join them. His own progress through the rain slicked streets had been just as heedless.

When they found the girl, hysterical, terrified – but unharmed, he sent McGee back with her and then hurried on with Tony and Ziva at his heels. The lecture hall was empty, but the hollow echo of a door slamming shut high above them told him that they needed to keep moving.

Out of the corner of his eye he noted the signs of a struggle on the stage. The overturned glass, a pool of red wine staining the expensive floor, a bloodstained knife cast aside as though it had been knocked out of someone's hand. No way of telling whose blood it was – no time to stop to find out.

He pushed himself up the stairs; past the rows of seating, his team at his heels. All of them determined, focussed; the Director's life in the balance. In this moment he couldn't afford to think of her as Jen.

The exit they burst through led onto a corridor – the choice was right, left or up another flight of stairs that looked as though it led to the roof. He sent Ziva and Tony along the corridor and took the stairs himself. The sound of his footsteps clanged on the metal tread; the fire exit was shut, blocked from the outside, but it gave way at his kick, hardly the most silent of entrances. There was no way of hiding his pursuit.

As he crouched low, scanning the area, all he could think was that he really hated rooftops.

He stepped away from the entrance, weapon drawn, circling slowly. It was dark now and the safety lights someone had deemed sufficient to illuminate the roof were not exactly bright. He moved from one pool of gloom to another, listening, watching – hoping for a sign.

Or a scream. He followed the sound and rounded the corner to see Fraiser trying to drag Jen towards the edge of the roof. Trying being the operative word, since she was fighting him every step of the way. He couldn't help but think of his reaction at the first crime scene, in the split second when he'd thought the body was hers. His vision of her raging and struggling to the last, had turned out to be a prophetic one. The woman before him was fighting with every ounce of strength she had, but even he could see that she was tiring; that Fraiser was stronger, that the edge of the roof was getting closer.

"Fraiser!" The man froze at the sound of his name and then looked back over his shoulder; he didn't look a lot like a man contemplating surrender. "Let her go," Gibbs ground out – using the opportunity to edge closer.

"Not going to happen," Fraiser pulled Jen to her feet, using her body as a shield – a mistake as it happened, but he couldn't be expected to know that. Gibbs moved, carefully, closer still.

"There's nowhere to go," he pointed out – in what might pass for a reasonable tone of voice if you didn't know him well. His finger itched on the trigger.

"There's always somewhere to go," Fraiser shuffled closer to the edge – which was all Gibbs needed to be convinced that he wasn't going to be able to talk him down. He had every intention of going over and taking Jen with him; the only question was whether he could be stopped.

He focussed his atterntion on his former partner. She'd stopped struggling and was looking him dead in the eye, even in the half-light he could read the determination in her expression. They'd been in this position once before, years ago – albeit without the edge of the roof to worry about. And he was just about to gamble a lot on her memory.

The feint was the start of it, a flick of his foot sending pebbles skittering off to the right. Fraiser reacted – his gaze drawn towards the direction of the sound, just enough distraction to allow Jen to jab her elbow, hard, into his stomach and then pull away as he doubled over. Fraiser's recovery was fast, or else she was a little slower than the last time they'd pulled this move, because he was still holding her when Gibbs tapped him twice in the chest. The impact of the bullets sent him reeling over the edge, his weight threatening to pull her with him.

Gibbs skidded across the distance that separated them – grasping her wrist, hearing her cry of pain but ignoring it as he used his weight as a counter-balance to stop her fall. He heard the thud as Fraiser's body hit the ground somewhere beneath him and couldn't make himself care about the life they had just ended.

He pulled her back from the edge and for a moment she struggled in his grasp – perhaps not realising that she was free. He gripped her shoulders "you're OK," he told her. She stilled, and then looked up at him, blinking as though she couldn't quite believe her eyes. "We got him," he said, "it's all over."

She didn't say anything, though he could feel her trembling beneath his hands. Slowly she leaned forward until her head against his shoulder, her fist curled into the front of his shirt. He let a out a breath and held her just a little tighter, knowing that this wasn't the time or place for more complicated emotions; he was going to concentrate on something simple, like relief. They stood like that for a moment longer, though he saw movement across the roof and knew that Tony and Ziva had arrived and would round the corner at any moment and see them in a moment he would much rather remained private.

He knew there was no way Jen would allow herself to take too much comfort, even in a situation like this. He felt her breathing slow and when she would have pulled away from him, he resisted, easing them to the ground so they were sitting side by side, his arm around her shoulders.

"Fraiser?" she asked.

"Two to the chest and then over the edge," she nodded and then didn't say anything more. The silence was short-lived.

"Boss!"

"We're fine," he said as Tony skidded to a halt in front of them. Ziva went straight to the edge of the roof and looked over, making sure that Fraiser was really dead – probably a good idea. "Ziva,"

"Secure the body," she said, "on it." She turned to go and then stopped and turned back. "I'm glad you're all right Director."

"Thank you Ziva." He suspected the thanks were for more than her good wishes – but he had no intention of asking. Tony had backed off – looking as though he wasn't sure whether he should give them some more privacy or try to help. Still sitting beside him Jen closed her eyes, leant her head back and then sighed.

"You hurt?" he asked, remembering the blood on the knife.

"Bruised and I think I've sprained my wrist. The wine was drugged – sleeping tablets, I'm not sure how much I drank."

"We'll get an ambulance, get you checked out. Do you need help?"

"I am walking out of here on my own." She ground the words out and he smiled at her determination, reassured for the first time since he'd arrived on the roof.

"OK." He got to his feet first, reaching out a hand to pull her up; she moved gingerly as though she wasn't quite sure whether her body would support her.

"You're being stubborn," he observed, but it wasn't a criticism, not really. Couldn't be when it was stubbornness that had kept her alive.

But he understood her reasoning and though Tony stayed within reach and he didn't move his hand from where it rested on her back, she got her wish. The Director of NCIS looked supremely in control as she walked down the stairs and out into the chill night air.

TBC - last part next.