And this brings S8 to a close. . .

Disclaimer: No matter how much I write, I will never own it.

Rain.

It ruins everything – like temperaments, evidence, a perfectly good day of sun, and people. The raindrops change their size depending on the storm front. They destroy what's in their path, regardless.

And who invented the umbrella? I'd like to have a word. They are so awkward to carry around. I suppose getting a travel umbrella would be fine for my gear pack but what if I don't have my backpack with me? Usually my thumb gets caught in the damn piece as I deflate the umbrella. Gah, I don't like them. Not like they actually prevent you from being wet, either. The worst are the wind gusts, carrying the rain, drenching everything, and soaking you to the bone. So in that case, you might as well carry extra clothes; then you have to make sure that your bag is waterproof. . . It's like the six-degrees of separation for Kevin Bacon but for an umbrella. I guess Kevin Bacon uses them. Right? See what I'm getting at – so much to think about for one lousy form of precipitation.

EJ's in Hawaii. Thought I would revel in the time alone. She doesn't really like the Hitchcock movie genre so I thought watching his 1943 classic, Shadow of a Doubt, would be a perfect way to spend an evening. Plus, we are working as the support team on her serial murder case, so it fits.

My phone rings. What now? I think as I see Gibbs' name pop up. "Yeah, Boss?"

"Get over here. Now." He says quickly. "Mike's gone."

I depend on you.

I waste no time. I get my keys and head to the door. I glance back right at the doorjamb. Uncle Charlie stops me when he utters, 'What's the use of looking backward? What's the use of looking ahead? Today's the thing - that's my philosophy. Today.' Then I look over at the coffee table - the wine bottle still corked, the take-out containers unopened. Doubt. Alone. Today, that's all we have. I immediately call Ziva and McGee telling them to get to Gibbs' house as soon as possible. Something fucking godawful went down. When I pull up, I see Ducky and Palmer already there. Even the Director is here. Not good – I can't recall when I've ever seen him outside the office.

Of course, it's fucking raining outside; the evidence washed away. The only thing we have are shell casings. Water saturated the only potential leads we could have.

He's coming after our own now. First Stark, now Franks. Not to mention the others we didn't investigate. Who is he coming after next? In this job, after a while, you learn there is no reason for dying. It's just completely out of your hands. People die when it's their time. You can't do anything about it.

Something is wrong with this. When a serial killer changes his MO, something even more fucked up is brewing. Gavin O'Ryan and his alter ego, Trent Kort have something to do with this. How do I know? His eye is in Abby's lab. He's the most hated person in my world after Eli David and Malachi Ben-Gidon. Of course, Kort's been pursuing Cobb. He fucking started this mess and now he has to clean it up. Except it seems like we are the ones doing the all the cleaning. He's breaking some rules but then again, that's what he's good at.

It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

Classified. Every goddamn thing seems to be classified. I'm beginning to hate that word, too. Yeah, we get that covert affairs team was implemented, fine – we get that but Cobb is after us. Who exactly? We don't know yet. We know the Agency is involved and now so is SecNav. This keeps escalating. I just want some fucking answers. I just want this to be fucking over.

I came back to the office and EJ was waiting for me.

"We have a problem."

"We do?" I look confused.

"Ziva went to get Ray and bring him back to her apartment. Problem is, he's here."

Not that I doubt EJ, but for my own satisfaction I call Ziva; hoping she was unreachable for EJ and not for me but I got no answer. Here comes the rain. Tried her at home, too, because that's where she should be with him. CI-Ray. No answer. I immediately press speed-dial ONE to notify Gibbs that something is amok. She's gone, again. Just like the wind. We've been setup. We have to find her. He's going after our own. My palms begin to sweat. I can't handle another Somalia. We got her back last time. This time, though, is different.

I take the keys and McGee follows me. Gibbs is going to drive but I just need to be in the car, now. We'll get there faster if he drives. I need to be at that hotel like 20 minutes ago. . . The elevator is going too slow, I can't take the stairs, I'm standing here trapped inside this metal box surrounded by Gibbs, Timmy and EJ. Is is hot in here or is it me? I feel my throat tighten. Somalia. I'm agitated. Where the fuck is she?

Fresh air wafts through as the elevator doors slide open and we walk to the scene of crime.

"How could she just walk outta here and nobody notices?" I ask the room. In this day and age with all the technological advances, the fucking security cameras don't work. Nobody pays attention to anything anymore. What the fuck?

"Tony." EJ states in a flat tone.

"Sorry." Why am I apologizing?

"We're all worried about Ziva." I hold back my laughter. Sure.

"I know. It's just different for some of us." I can feel EJ's eyes on me. Us, meaning me. I can't bear to go through a life changing event like that again. I don't think I'm strong enough. Imagining a world without her just isn't an option. It's neither the time nor the place to discuss my statement. It doesn't matter because I'm not going to tell her anyway.

As we mark this solemn occasion, we reflect knowing that Mike Franks lived his life the best way he knew how. He was a teacher, a patriot, a friend and a warrior; we are all lucky to have known him. We will all miss him. I can picture him now, with his husky voice and no nonsense attitude, asking if he gets unlimited drink privileges and memories of all beautiful women now. I think he lead by example to live life to the fullest – as we all hope too.

We came. We saw. We kicked its ass.

"Ray get off safely?" I ask, as if I really care.

"He did." She smiles and asks about the service.

"It was short and patriotic. I think he would've been pissed if it had been any longer. I can picture him saying, 'Why the hell ya standin' here? There's bourbon to be drank.'"

She holds up her glass so I mirror her actions. Her glass taps mine. "For Mike." We down the bourbon and I shake my glass so Brett notices. "Is it funny or sad I've gotten used to drinking from the jars in Gibbs' basement?"

"I do miss the sawdust. It adds a little something extra."

"Right, it's not the jars. It what's at the bottom. A surprise every time."

She reaches in her coat pocket and retrieves a box. I say nothing, come on Brett – get your ass over here. I need another drink. I can't handle this shit.

"Don't worry." She laughs and replies answering the unasked questions in the air. "It's empty."

"I thought rings came in them."

"Usually, they do. Instead in this one, there was a promise."

"A promise of a bigger box for next time?"

"Very funny. It is a promise that we have to talk."

"Oh, that's how you keep the romance alive. By promising to talk? Do you schedule it or is it whenever he gets a free moment? Cell phone minutes can be a bitch." Did I go to far? Nah.

"Is what you said to EJ?"

"I didn't make a promise I didn't intend to keep. She left. Maybe we'll talk, maybe not. She has some stuff to work out; plus I've been tasked by the new SecNav for a mission so I'm going to be away for a bit, too."

"How long?"

"Until it's done."

"I will be here when you get back."

"I know."