Hi all! Just wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed for the positive feedback so far. I really do appreciate it! Sorry this chapter took me a while to get to… I've been hashing it out, plus, life has been a little hectic lately. Hoping to update again around Thanksgiving. Enjoy!

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The weather matched her mood. The dampness, the coolness, the greyness swirling around her and within her seemed all-consuming. Again, she thought. It was happening again. She was a target. Those she cared about were targets because of her. And they were going to put themselves in harm's way yet again for her.

The windshield wipers swishing every ten seconds were mesmerizing. Ironic how they mirrored her life, she thought. They were able to temporarily erase the drizzle that burdened the glass, but the ugliness invariably kept coming back. In her mind, her past fell with those drops, and they just kept coming back no matter how hard she tried to wipe them away.

Schmiel's wisdom danced in her mind, his voice chiding, "The rain may bring us temporary gloominess my dear Ziva, but it is necessary for the beauty that follows."

He was right, of course. Everyone experienced the "gloominess" of life. Some more so than others. Some of their own doing. Some who were dealt it hand after hand. Her mind drifted to the beginning of her journey.

After handling all of her affairs in Israel, she realized that she no longer wanted to stay in her birthplace. She realized that too much had been taken from her here and the memories threatened to consume her. She realized that she wanted, and maybe more importantly, deserved something permanent. She realized that her happiness awaited her in D.C. However, she was still fighting off the demons and insisted that they were hers to face alone.

In her search for solace, she set out on a journey of redemption. At the time of her decision, she had no plan – she didn't know where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there. So, she packed what she felt essential and flew to Istanbul. She had been to the city on several different missions for Mossad and always thought that it was beautiful, that she would like to shop at the bazaars or visit the Jewish District or attend an opera. But, when she arrived in the bustling city in mid-January, none of these things filled the need within her soul. The problem was, she didn't know what would. As she explored the city in the following days, a sense of helplessness began to consume her. She started having anxiety attacks, wondering if she would ever be able to put the past behind her. Then, one day as she wandered a less attractive section of Istanbul, she saw a sign for an orphanage. She couldn't explain the pull, didn't dare analyze its origin, but it was there. After staring at the sign for a minute, she tried to tighten the coat around her even more and pushed the buzzer. She was startled when she was granted quick access to the property. A grandmotherly lady greeted her at the entrance asking if she could help her. Ziva, unsure up to that very moment what she was going to say, asked if they were looking for help. The gray haired woman smiled apologetically, explaining that they did not have enough money to hire another staff member. Ziva quickly volunteered her services, free of charge. At the suspicious squint of the director, Ziva hurriedly explained that she too was an orphan and wanted to give back, to help children she felt a similar connection to through her losses. The older woman acquiesced, asking Ziva to return the next day. She complied, getting a full night's sleep for the first time in days.

After a few days of interacting with the children, she became attached to one in particular. Ayla. She was a scrawny eight year old with dark skin, hair, and eyes, reminding her a lot of Tali. It was her eyes though that Ziva was drawn to. They spoke of acceptance of a situation beyond her control, but they screamed resilience, that she was not going to let circumstances define her life. Ziva found strength in the small child, calling her "berakah," a gift.

One day, Ziva found her bundled up and twirling around in her room beside the cracked window. Music from somewhere beyond the walls of the orphanage drifted up to the third floor dorm. Ziva stood and watched, applauding with glistening eyes when the twirling stopped. It was in that moment that she realized the reason she was there and the direction she was to travel. The director found her an empty room in which she could instruct a small group of children interested in learning simple ballet steps. Ziva even offered to put on a small performance for the other children and the staff if her dancers put forth a lot of effort. They were eager and willing to listen, eager to have something special in their lives.

After practice one snowy afternoon, Ziva noticed Ayla seemed sad – an emotion she never witnessed from the youth before. The girl sat on the floor with her head down as she finished tying her second shoe. "Ayla, is everything alright?"

With her head still down, she shook it to indicate "yes."

"Are you sure? Is there something I can help you with?"

Suddenly, a sob escaped her throat and her shoulders began to shake.

Ziva was on the floor in an instant, scooping the child onto her lap and offering as much comfort as possible with her embrace. "Shhh. Everything will be ok, little one. Shhhh." Ziva gently rocked back and forth, trying to sooth. After she calmed, she tried asking again, "What's wrong, Berakah?"

"Today is the day my parents died," Ayla explained in the tiniest of voices. The eyes that were always full of life, of fire, were eerily distant and disturbed. Before Ziva could respond, she continued, unbidden. "My dad was not a nice man," she whispered. A memory replayed in Ziva's mind as the girl continued. "He would hit my anne and I would hide under the table or behind the chair. One day she did not get up. She fell and hit her head. He screamed at her to get up, get up, but she wouldn't listen. I ran from the house, afraid he would come for me. When I returned, the police were there. They said they had been looking for me. When I asked about my anne and baba, they said there was an accident, that I had to come with them." When she finished, she was calm again, as if relaying a story about someone else. With large eyes, she looked at Ziva. "Sometimes I see them in my dreams. I cannot seem to forget them." She continued to watch Ziva, silently searching for reassurance.

Ziva was at a loss at first. How was she to explain to an innocent child the ugliness she witnessed? She had certainly lived through enough of it herself, but how was she supposed to pull something good from a situation in which a father killed a mother in front of a child. She gently laid a palm on both cheeks and began, "You don't ever forget. You remember the lessons learned from the past and use them to move forward. You are beautiful, ҫocuğum. You did not deserve what happened. But, we cannot undo the past. Use it to remember that the light is better than the darkness, for you are full of light. Full of joy."

Ziva gripped the steering wheel tightly, yet again, as another searing lightning bolt of pain pierced through her abdomen. She needed to stop. To rest.

Glancing in her rearview mirror, she spotted the same black sedan that she had been keeping track of since crossing the border, which had taken her longer than she had expected, longer than she would have liked. That, combined with the fact that she was traveling a more indirect route to Berlin, limited her progress for the day. She made another turn at an intersection, and the black sedan was still there. With the need to rest, Ziva pulled into the next motel she happened upon. She watched the sedan park as far as possible from her location. Whoever had been following her was not very discrete.

After settling into her small, dingy room, Ziva grabbed her gun and snuck out the back window. She rounded the corner of the motel and spotted the black car. Peering through the thick bush, she could make out a single silhouette sitting in the front driver seat. The person held a phone.

She crept closer. Cigarette smoke mixed with Russian words wafted from the cracked open window. Ziva was close enough now to understand at least one side of the conversation.

"This was not the plan Sergei! I was merely supposed to pinpoint her location and Makar was to take care of the rest. Now he is dead, the woman is on the run, and you have me following her!" The figure listened. "Yes, of course I want to see them again. Please do not hurt them," the silhouette pleaded. "We are at a motel in Weilburg. She rented a room, I assume for the night. I still am unsure of her destination. She was cryptic in her last communication." Another pause. "Yes sir."

After the call ended, the man cursed and threw the phone on the passenger seat. He may prove useful, Ziva thought. She snuck up to the driver side window and tapped on the glass with her knuckles while training her gun on the man. He snapped his head toward the sound and his eyes grew wide.

"Put your hands on the wheel," Ziva commanded easily in Russian. "Now, only move your right hand, and put the window completely down." He complied again, uncomfortable with the knowledge that this woman took out Makar. "Who are you?" Ziva demanded.

In a quavering voice he replied, "Viktor. Viktor Rhinmakov."

"What are you doing following me?"

"I was ordered to. By my employer."

"Who is your employer and why is he ordering you to follow me?"

"Please. Just let me go. I will tell him that you got away. I don't really know where you are going anyway," Viktor beseeched.

"Tell me what is going on, or I will make sure you do not see your family again," Ziva threatened as she straightened her gun. She had no intention of killing the man, but bluffing may get her the information she sought.

"Ok, ok!" he said as he pushed on the steering wheel with the palms of his hands while extending his fingers. "I am working for Sergei Mishnev. He wants you dead. I was in charge of tracking you, and then Makar was to kill you, and I was to return home to my family. Now, instead, my orders are to follow you so Sergei can kill you himself."

"Why does this Sergei want me dead?" Ziva questioned.

"Because you killed your brother, the man that he considered a son," Viktor sighed.

"And how does this Sergei know that I killed Ari?" Ziva asked, his name passing painfully through her lips.

"Because. I hacked Mossad files to find out the details of his death. I found the location and learned of the history Ari had with Agent Gibbs, so it was assumed that he was the one to pull the trigger. Then I came across another file with your name and after more digging, discovered it was actually your hand that caused the death. Now, Sergei wants both of you to pay."

Anger at the thought that this Mishnev wanted to hurt the man she considered more of a father than her own blood had her thrusting the gun barrel into Viktor's temple. "How did you locate me in France? How did you know I was going somewhere?"

"I listened to your conversation. I have this microphone monitoring device that I can point in your direction and listen in on your calls," he finished weakly.

Ziva considered her options. She could hit him alongside the head right now, and escape. But she knew it would not end well for this man if he reported back to Mishnev that he lost her. For some reason that possibility bothered her. Another option was to turn him, to use him against Mishnev. She was unsure of his trustworthiness, but felt this was the better of the two options. "Here is what you are going to do," Ziva began with a threateningly low voice. "You will continue to follow me. If Mishnev contacts you for an update, you will tell him that you are still following me, but I have made no further contact with anyone else. Do you understand so far?" Ziva inquired as she slightly pushed the barrel into his temple. He nodded his concurrence. She continued, "You will not inform him of any future contact with my colleagues. The only information you share with Mishnev, besides following me, is what I tell you to share." He nodded again. Ziva pulled the gun from his head and he turned to look at her. She left him with a parting thought. "The only way you are guaranteed to see your family again is if Mishnev is dead. You follow through with our terms, and that is what will happen." She turned and strode toward her room.

As soon as she passed through the door, she took the pills Alexander had given her in Metz. One was for infection and the other was for the searing pain. She was sure there was internal damage, but seeking further medical attention was not an option at this time. She exchanged the bloody bandage for a clean one and picked up the emergency phone. Staring at it, she planned out the quick exchange in her head.

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Tony's head was bowed as he leaned his palms on the counter in the men's room. It had been almost twenty-four hours since his call with Ziva. Twenty-four hours of not knowing where she was, not knowing if she had been confronted by anyone else, not knowing the extent of her injuries. It had been more than twenty-four hours without sleep.

He had tried to heed Gibb's 2am warning to get some sleep. But images danced behind his eyelids every time they slid shut. Instead, he opted for the punching bag. When he finished, his knuckles looked eerily similar to another moment in time. Now, he wished he had gotten some shut-eye. He was ready to collapse and knew he couldn't.

Their flight departed at 1300. Tony had argued the day before that they needed to leave immediately, but everyone else was able to see the need to plan. In the meantime, they had done a lot of digging, trying to locate Mishnev and any other known Russian mercenaries operating in Europe. They turned up little. Mossad was kind enough to share the identity of the dead Russian found in Ziva's apartment. Former KGB turned mercenary. One of the best, the reports indicated. A rueful grin tugged the corner of Tony's mouth. Not once he met his ninja, though. Tony gazed into the mirror. Emptiness gazed back. He needed her home, in one piece. Otherwise, the emptiness might become permanent. He pushed off from the counter.

Tony strode into the bullpen, determination still in every step. "You know what I don't get?" he announced to anyone listening. Both Ellie and McGee turned and looked at him expectantly. "How did Mossad get in there so quickly? I mean, the French authorities never even investigated, meaning the incident had to have been contained almost instantly."

"You think Mossad had something to do with the attack, Tony? I know they're ruthless, but that seems too much, even for them."

"Just hear me out, McTrusting. Ziva possesses all kinds of secrets, all kinds of down-and-dirty intel from her years as an operative. Plus, she was the former director's daughter. If she would fall into the wrong hands, the implications for Israel would not be pretty. So, maybe they put a protection detail on Ziva to make it look like they were trying to protect her, hired the Russians and gave them her location, and then had a second Mossad team on standby that went in and found the other Mossad team and the Russian dead."

McGee and Ellie both stared at Tony, mouths gaped open. "I think you've seen one too many movies, Tony. Your imagination is running wild. Do you really think Mossad would take out two of their own?"

Ellie added, "You need sleep, Tony."

"I don't trust Orli Elbaz. You guys explain Mossad's quick timing and the 'flic's' lack of interest," Tony challenged.

"Timing, DiNozzo," Gibbs answered, rounding the corner in full stride with coffee in hand and taking a seat at his desk. "Director Elbaz explained Ziva's routine over the past few months. The protection detail checked in every evening at 2100, Israeli time. Their coroner placed time of death around the same time. They knew something was wrong right away. Got a team on the ground within the hour." He glanced over to Tony, adding, "She's on our side, DiNozzo."

Silence permeated the bullpen. Then, "We should be there by now. We should be there with her right now," Tony insisted.

"SOP, DiNozzo," Gibbs reminded without looking up from his monitor. "Ziva has been trained to evade, to not head directly toward her next destination. We have time."

Ellie's phone rang, everyone eyeing it. On the third ring, Gibbs barked, "Bishop. Answer the damn phone."

She reached for the phone. "Bishop," she spoke into the receiver. Her eyes widened and flicked to Tony as she cradled the phone to her shoulder and reached for pen and paper. She began scribbling at a maddening rate. Tony slowly rose from his chair and stepped over to her desk, squinting down in curiosity at his newest team member. The conversation was completely one sided and only lasted about thirty seconds, with the only other words uttered by Ellie being, "Got it. Be safe."

Tony's gut knew. He knew it was her. So, he couldn't help the anger that tinged his accusation. "That was Ziva, wasn't it?" Her non-reply and quick glance to Gibbs was confirmation enough. "Why the hell did she call you?"

Gibbs was standing to the side of Tony before he even registered his presence. "Bishop is the only member of this team that has no personal connection to Ziva. She can remain completely neutral and objective."

"And I can't, is that it!?"

Gibbs simply stared at Tony, tilting his head to one side, is reaction answer enough.

Tony relented, sighing as he ran a hand down the length of his face. "Alright. What did Ziva tell you?"

Ellie proceeded to report, in a concise manner, as she bounced up from her seat. "Ok. First, she started with wanting to pass a message along to everyone that she was doing well but progressing slower than she anticipated. She's in Weilburg which is only about a third of the way to her destination, which we know is Berlin." As she took a shallow breath to continue, Tony interrupted.

"How did she sound?" At Ellie's questioning gaze, he elaborated. "Did she sound like she was in pain, like she was frantic? Or was she more relaxed, in control?"

Ellie furrowed her brow, thinking back on the exchange. "She sounded determined, like she had a plan."

"Bishop, what else?" Gibbs prompted, sharply.

"Um. Yeah. She said she was being followed by a Viktor Rhinmakov." Tony's features visibly hardened, worry evident. "That he was the hacker. She confronted him and believes she was able to turn him." Tony turned, cursing under his breath. "He claimed that his family was being held by Mishnev."

"McGee."

"Finding everything I can on Rhinmakov. On it, boss."

Ellie continued, "She also gave me a code for another phone." Ellie looked at Tony, "She said that you would have the key and to only use it when you landed," she said, handing him the paper she had scrawled on.

"Me?" Tony asked disbelievingly, looking at the writing.

"She said to tell you, 'The Natives were restless,' whatever that means."

Tony pondered, whispering the clue to himself repeatedly as he looked at the words on the sheet. Suddenly he snapped his fingers as his eyes lit up with recognition. He returned to his desk in two strides and began typing furiously.

"Tony?" McGee summoned, standing, curious what the clue meant.

Tony held up a just-a-minute finger, then continue on the keyboard. Everyone assumed he had found what he was looking for a moment later when he gave an, "Ahh-hah!"

The plasma flicked to life with the image of a DVD cover.

"This is no time for one of your movie references, Tony," McGee reminded, annoyed.

Tony stood and joined the team in front of the plasma. "It's not Tim. Well, it kinda is. Wind Talkers. A three star movie. One of Nicholas Cage's better roles. Ziva and I watched it one night…" Tony paused as he caught Gibb's assessing stare. "Just a movie night boss. Nothing else." Tony cleared his throat and continued, "Anyway, she became fascinated with the Navajo language. You know her and languages. I wouldn't be surprised if this isn't language number ten." As his head snapped forward, he continued. "Right. Sorry boss. Getting to the point. The new number is in Navajo," he finished, turning the paper for Gibbs to see.

"Alright. I want everyone ready to leave in an hour. Wheels up at 1300," Gibbs commanded as he turned toward the stairs.