A/N: Trigger warning, just to be safe. Violence and dubious consent
...][...
Gibbs swept into the bullpen with tired eyes and a fresh takeout coffee.
"What have we got?"
"We need more evidence," Ziva groused from her position stooped over McGee.
"I'm working on it," McGee replied with a resigned tone. "The company that owned the limo Tony's car was following…"
"Before it was blown up," interjected Ziva.
"Before it was blown up," McGee repeated, tentatively tapping at his keyboard. "Is a shell company, owned by another company in the Caymans." McGee angled his head back and raised his eyebrows, blinking rapidly. "Which is a subsidiary of an import-export business with offices in Nairobi, Paris, Capetown…"
McGee glanced at his impassive Boss. "It's complicated."
"Give me some good news."
"I've got the accounts that were filed for the last five years, it's highly profitable."
His comments were met with an unearthly silence.
"I'm tracing as much of the company hierarchy as I can find. A lot of it is buried. Like a shell within a shell? I'm getting any assets they have listed, but mostly its leases…"
"And?"
Gibbs took a sip of scalding coffee, managing to never take his eyes of the young agent.
"Umm," McGee gulped nervously. "Well, I hacked into over a dozen lease providers for corporate assets."
"And?" Gibbs pressed.
"I'm cross referencing," McGee said helplessly.
"Ziva, anything your contacts can turn up."
"I can try, but he has always been careful" she confirmed, straightening her back. She braced her hands close to the small of her back and groaned softly.
"When you've made your calls, get some rest," Gibbs growled quietly. "I'll track down a Judge." Tony would have done it usually, but Shepard had given him a sabbatical to get his head together. Falling for La Grenouille's daughter had done more damage than anyone had expected, especially Tony. Gibbs rolled his eyes towards the dark glass of the skylight. He would be all right. In time. Relationships were …complicated. He made his way behind his own desk and rolled his head slowly from one side to the other.
He thought of Shepard out in the field on her own. In her time he would have had no qualms about her holding her own, but the fact was, she had been out of the field for God knows how long. She swapped the thrill of the chase for schmooze and rubber chicken dinners. He had no doubt about her ability, but the fact of the matter was, some instincts only stay honed with perpetual use. The kind of instincts that keep a body alive.
She'd had to work to keep up in the field, whereas the job she did now appeared to be all but effortless. His mouth twisted sourly. He owned up to the fact that he didn't really have an effective technique for handling her in Director mode. She was as far away from him in the office one floor up, as she ever had been across the pond.
Shepard didn't have a sense of humour when it came to this guy. The question was why. She wasn't giving any clues outside of her borderline obsession. He made a point of evaluating the state of the rest of the team. Both his agents looked as weary as he felt. Without Tony on board as the class clown, the work seemed to drag them down more than usual. The dubious involvement of the Director had got to be making it worse.
He turned to McGee.
"Can you run another search while you're thing does its thing?" Gibbs stirred the air with his finger aimed at McGee's computer.
"Sure Boss. I mean, it could slow things down."
"Use Tony's."
"Err…ok."
McGee moved warily to the chair behind DiNozzo's desk. He seated himself carefully, as if expecting the chair to collapse under him at any moment.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Tell me everything you know about Trent Kort's cell traffic this evening."
McGee got to his feet. "I should run it from my desk," he explained nervously, glancing at Ziva. The program would still be open on a page behind the corporate searches. All he had to do was key in the new mobile number. He was pretty sure it would be encrypted, the CIA didn't hand out leads like that like candy. "It's a software thing," he explained lamely.
Gibbs turned to his own monitor and waggled the mouse to bring it to life, aware in his periphery of McGee dropping into his customary chair in what looked like relief. Under his breath he said disparagingly, "a software thing,"
Behind her own desk, Ziva David picked up her desk 'phone, punched some numbers and swivelled her chair to turn her back to McGee, and more importantly, Gibbs.
…][…
The harbour was as quiet as it ever got. Waves slopped against the harbour wall, boats tested their moorings against the slight swell on the water with a creak and a groan. The slight breeze brought the smell of captive seawater with the oily overtone of gasoline to Shepard's nostrils. The hairs on the back of her neck rose with every tick of the cooling engine between her legs. She sat statue still with the helmet looped over one wrist, still astride the bike, alert for any reason to kick it into life and roar away.
This was as close as she could get without abandoning the bike. Between her and the silent hulls stood a seven foot wire fence. The gate, dimly lit, housed a stainless steel keypad to one side. Beyond it pontoons stretched out, clustered with money afloat. At every mooring a light glimmered at ankle height in the gloom.
Somewhere in the darkness, a halyard clinked against a masthead like a bell striking time. Shepard let her eyes get accustomed to the shades of dark and the constantly moving background of shifting shapes. There was a rhythm to it that would have been peaceful at any other time. A gull called mournfully overhead making her startle. She swore softly under her breath, cursing the darkness, the lateness of the hour and the man that had brought her here.
A grey shape detached itself from the one of the vessels. She stiffened her posture, feeling the comforting jut of the gun against her spine. Head down between its shoulders, the figure of a man moved cautiously into the light. His shape was unmistakeable to her. La Grenouille. She drew breath and held it, not trusting herself to speak. He ambled to the gate, set his fingers to the wire and stared at her and the bike, eventually cocking his head to one side before he spoke in his heavily accented english.
"You have me guessing still. Am I to come to you?"
"Not yet," she said sharply. There was no clean shot. If she took aim from here, the chances were the bullets would chip the wire and deflect away, throwing away her only chance. He would turn tail and be out of reach before she could reach the fence to push the muzzle of the gun through to take aim again. "I came alone, as agreed. I can make arrangements, if you are serious about coming in."
He dipped his head in acquiescence and reached for the door release on his side. "A drink then, while we wait?" The wire door stood open, held ajar for her.
Shepard dismounted, carrying the motorcycle helmet with her. She squared her shoulders and swallowed her hatred. She needed close quarters for what she planned. "How do I know you are alone?"
He shrugged casually, "my word, as a gentleman."
'My word, as a gentleman.' Shepard smiled tightly, the words reverberated around her head. She had heard them before, when she had reached too far, too fast. "Your word," she repeated. "No replacement for Henri?" She passed through the gate and heard it swing shut behind her. Benoit had lost his long time bodyguard in the blast that blew DiNozzo's car to pieces.
La Grenouille fell in beside her and gestured ahead. "No, it did not seem kind with things coming to an end. This way."
At the next gate, she stopped suddenly, staring up into Benoit's face, trying to read the expression in the half light. It felt for a moment as if he had guessed what she had planned. He let her study his face before reaching for the motorcycle helmet, taking it from her unresisting fingers. "Allow me." He offered a small smile and ushered her through.
She half expected him to give her his arm. "You're taking quite a risk," she said evenly. She stepped with him towards the end of the pontoon. A sleek hull rose to her left, another to her right. She caught sight of the name, Mauretania.
"I had hoped you would call," he said gently. "Your persistence in the game…"
"It's not a game," she said coldly.
"Of course not. A figure of speech only. Shall we?" He handed her up on to a short gangplank.
"You don't really expect to leave here alive?" She asked pointedly, strolling away from him along the deck. The vantage of height gave her a better view of the pontoon and surrounding area. She glanced back the way they had come. A pair of headlights swung into view and vanished. It could have been nothing, but her grip on the handrail tightened imperceptibly. Company was coming, she could feel it, and the last thing she wanted was a witness, especially Kort.
Benoit put the helmet on a bench seat against the superstructure of the boat.
"No…foreplay. Madame Directeur?"
"About as much as you gave me," she hissed. Her stomach clenched, the urge to vomit almost made her stagger.
"So long to carry hatred in your heart," he admonished. He tipped his head back and sniffed the air.
"As long as you have known exactly who I was."
"Not at first," he admitted slowly. "But then, you look so much like your Mother. No-one was more surprised to see you there than I, I can assure you."
"You gave your word then too, remember?"
"And here you are. Alive." He shrugged apologetically. "The Russians are no fools. You played a hooker, I played along. I said you were for me. It was the best I could do in the circumstances. It helped that you were…quite convincing, thinking of someone else, no doubt. I always regretted that we did not have more time together after." He looked behind himself briefly, then moved past Shepard towards the door to staterooms. "Cognac? Inside. Where it is warmer," he urged.
"I will see you dead," she spat.
He smiled briefly, squinting his eyes as if looking past her. "Your bullets are below decks."
"Gibbs gave me a refill," she stated coolly, reaching for the glock in her waistband. In her fury, she almost missed the sound of a gun cocking by her ear. She hadn't heard footsteps at all.
A soft male voice beside her ear said, "that won't be necessary." She froze.
She didn't recognise the voice, it certainly wasn't Kort. There was a flatness to the tone that made her skin crawl. Benoit had lied, although at the time, she could have sworn he was telling the truth. There had been a bodyguard after all.
Benoit held his palms in view and pursed his lips at her reaction. "He is not yours?" he asked curiously.
She stared at him trying to mask her panic, caught off guard by the thought that the man with the gun was not who she thought he was. She addressed the man behind her, thinking on her feet, "Kort sent you."
"Very good, Director," the voice behind her purred. "He was concerned for your safety."
Benoit stiffened. Shepard gritted her teeth, thinking that was the least of the things Kort should be worried about if she made it out of here, and then concentrated on doing exactly that.
"I don't think you understand," she turned slowly to bring her body side on to the man behind her, with her back to the superstructure. He took a pace backwards, leaving his right arm was extended, pointing a weapon with a silencer at Benoit. Shepard continued, "La Grenouille and I have a little unfinished business."
She risked a glance at the new arrival. He was her height or so, heavily built, wearing dark cargo pants and a thick, dark cable knit sweater. He never took his eyes off Benoit, although she was sure if she made a move he would react appropriately. He had the same aura of compressed energy around him that Gibbs had, ready to explode into action as soon as the need arose. He also moved like a ghost. His cold smile made her shiver.
"Draw your weapon, slowly," he instructed. "No sudden moves."
With a studied casualness she moved as if to put her right hand behind her back, stepped forward suddenly to wind her left arm around the shooter's right and heaved it upwards. She struck him under the chin with the heel of her right hand, feeling rather than hearing the sickening crunch of his jaws closing one against the other. His gun clattered on the deck and slithered under the rail into the water.
In the scant second that he took to grunt in pain, she had bent to grasp the motorcycle helmet from the seat behind her and used it to smash him across his face. He staggered backwards, overbalanced and toppled over the rail, bounced half on the pontoon below and slipped into the water between the yacht and the mooring. She dropped the helmet.
"Hurry!" she called to Benoit, walking briskly towards him. "We don't have much time."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Give me your hand." She offered her left hand, gesturing to his right. As soon as he made the move to reach for her, she grabbed for him, feeling for the pinch point that would buy her a second of time. It would be all she needed. She squeezed hard, keeping hold as Benoit jerked to a halt and hissed in pain. She drew the glock in one smooth movement and pressed it to the side of his temple.
"Tell my Father I said hello."
She turned her face and pulled the trigger, releasing her grip on the man as he lurched backwards, staggered a single step and crashed over the rail.
The sound of the gunshot was obscenely loud, as was the splash Benoit made entering the water. The rope holding the yacht in place groaned. Shepard dropped to a crouch, scanning for untoward sounds. There was nothing, just the quiet slop of waves against the hull and the creak of the vessel against its mooring. She scuttled to the gap in the rail that heralded the start of the gangplank and peered around the side, before drawing back just as swiftly.
There was no guarantee the hired gun was out of action. Never underestimate your opponent, Gibbs' dry admonishment rattled in her head. He had said it standing over her prone body in the gym and then helped her up and spent a half an hour behind a body bag letting her get rid of her frustration. Then he corrected how she punched until every hit she made, made him stifle a grunt.
She breathed steadily, trying to counter the adrenaline coursing through her veins that wanted her to run heedlessly in whatever direction safety offered itself. She forced herself to think, to plan if the gunman reappeared between her and the gates. He had lost his gun, she was sure of it. She was equally sure that he would have a back up, or at the very least, a knife. She had the best part of a clip, what she needed was distance. It was unlikely she would be able to take him by surprise a second time. She scrabbled for the motorcycle helmet, lifting it silently when her questing fingers found it so that she made no sound and looping it over her left arm.
Tentatively she made her way down the gangplank, straining for any sound, reaching for any untoward movement in the grey shapes around her. She ran for the first gate, snatching it open with trembling fingers that also held the gun. She knew she should drop it in the water, but couldn't bring herself to do it. A scuff sounded behind her. She slammed the gate and sighted the barrel through the bars of the gate, left and right, but saw nothing. She rattled the gate, testing it for complete closure and ran.
By the time she reached the wire gate with the motorcycle just beyond, she was sobbing. Gasping for breath, she cranked back the handle and let herself out, dragging the gate soundly shut behind her. It wouldn't hold him if he was coming for her. There was nothing to say that he was. There was nothing to say that he wasn't. She struck towards the bike, scrambling inelegantly aboard and firing it with one hand, stuffing the gun back in her waistband with the other. With the helmet still looped over her arm, she tore out of the small car park, gritting her teeth against them trying to chatter their way out of her mouth.