Kort drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Jonas Cobb carried nothing on him that could be traced back to Kort. No earwig, no transmitter, nothing. Complete deniability. Complete isolation from the action. His frustration grew. It shouldn't have taken this long, even if Shepard was there. Unless something was wrong. He fondled a gun in his lap, sweeping the pad on his thumb over the clip catch and back again.
A darker shadow separated itself from the grey shapes around it. Kort stiffened and squinted into the gloom, relaxing marginally as the shape drew closer. He stowed the gun back in an ankle holster and flicked the central locking off.
With the opening of a rear door, the stink of the harbour invaded the inside of the car, not relenting when Cobb drew himself inside fully and slammed the door.
Kort eyed the sodden mess that slumped itself on the back seat of his sedan.
"What happened to you?"
"Tango had company."
"You knew there would be some," Kort replied curtly.
"I have a broken rib," his companion stated dully. "Possible fracture, upper arm."
"And? Report!"
"Benoit's dead, I checked the body. Bullet entered left temporal, thumb tap on his right hand, just as you said. Copycat right? Who was the original?"
Kort didn't reply directly, brushing the question aside. "And your rib? What did you do, fall over a mooring rope?"
"Accidents happen," he replied emptily.
"And the Director?"
"Won't be so lucky next time," Cobb said flatly.
Kort opened his mouth to warn him off, thinking better of it almost immediately. The last thing he wanted to do was draw Cobb's attention to Jenny Shepard. He started the car instead.
"You said you checked the body."
Cobb stared at him impassively. He had already answered the relevant questions, he had no time or inclination for repeats. He took orders from this man, having to be polite wasn't one of them. He had reached a stage in his development where respect was reserved for those who could match him. He knew he could snap the wiry man's neck in a matter of seconds, but for now, he would serve. For now.
"You weren't the shooter. She took you out first."
Cobb looked out of the window, dismissing the sneering note sliding through his handler's voice. He bore no shame from falling to an operative with the upper hand in the moment. But he would remember. And next time, there would be no sneering note, because next time, he would leave no-one alive. He made a mental note to look up the background of the Director of NCIS. From what he heard, from what he saw, he would have killed the bastard too. The desire for consistency in the evidence intrigued him momentarily. Perhaps he would look into that too.
…][…
Shepard could imagine her knuckles, white under the leather of the gloves. The muscles in her hands cramped in protest at the severity of her grip on the handlebars. In a way, the sternness with which she held herself was the only thing stopping her from imploding. When she eventually pulled over to put her helmet on, her hands were trembling so badly she couldn't snap the chin strap shut. She left what remained of the visor up, unable to see through the cracked plastic.
In her mind's eye, Benoit's resigned expression flickered on and off, and with it, the echo of the shot she had turned her face aside from. Acid flooded the back of her throat, she swallowed it down with a bitter grimace.
Deliberately she sucked in air through her nose and panted it out, trying to quell the curdling in her stomach. A lone tear escaped her left eye and trailed to her chin. She wiped it away angrily. She would be sick at some point. She had managed to hide it from Gibbs in the field, but never lost her body's delayed reaction to violent death. Even if the bastard deserved it.
She wouldn't go home. She was a walking bag of trace evidence, from the powder residue on her gloves to the gun she refused to part with. There were plans for every eventuality and whilst the circumstances didn't quite fit the design, there was a bolt hole she could use to clean up. It was risky, but better than any alternative by a mile. Feeling calmer, she tried to loosen the stiffness in her shoulders and worked up the energy to point the motorcycle to a boutique hotel in a quiet part of town.
…][…
Gibbs slammed the handset down. Shepard's cell was still ringing out. If he heard her answerphone message one more time, he'd end up flinging his handset on the floor and stamping on it.
"What's taking so damn long?" Gibbs growled.
"The CIA don't let just anyone see their cell traffic," McGee replied absently. Immediately he stiffened and looked up furtively. Gibb's head swiveled inexorably in McGee's direction. "Sorry, it's encrypted. I have to find a key."
"So, find a key," Gibbs snapped, drawing the last word out. The longer it took, the later it got, the more his gut told him Shepard was in trouble. He called, she answered, that's how it was, every night, up until tonight. Even with Mann around, he called. After. He didn't stay over, neither did she. No reason, just an unspoken non-infringement of the other person's personal space. Mann didn't know or chose to ignore it. She never mentioned it, but then, she never mentioned what passed between her and Shepard, in Shepard's office when she came out reeking of bourbon. And he didn't ask. Female hierarchy wasn't something he wanted to get in between, ever again.
"Right," McGee agreed slowly. His thumb hit the space bar repeatedly. "Almost in."
"And?"
"I tripped something," McGee rubbed his eyes and blinked shut hard. "Sorry. Going again." He clicked his mouse, shifted it, clicked again, looking out of the side of his eyes to check if Gibbs was still staring, gulping uncomfortably when he realised that he was.
Ziva swiveled back in her chair, reading from a small pocketbook. "Mr Trent Kort received a call at approximately twenty-one hundred hours," she checked her watch, "last night, which lasted approximately thirty seconds."
"From?" barked Gibbs.
"A disposable cell located in the Georgetown area."
"Meaning?"
"It could have been from anyone in that area."
"Number?"
"Currently unavailable, must be switched off."
"Number!"
Ziva reeled off the digits and watched Gibbs punch them directly into his cell, shortly before he threw it into the corner behind him in disgust.
"Um, Boss? I don't think it likes it when you do that."
Gibbs turned a deadly stare to McGee. "Do you have anything for me yet, McGee?"
McGee squirmed and lowered his head, looking intently at his monitor instead.
"He then rang another number. Also disposable. No, um, trace available. Currently. Switched off."
Gibbs pushed himself back in his chair and glared at the ceiling. Calling Kort might have been for back up or information. Kort could have called the Frog. Or a second shooter. Gibbs gritted his teeth. Why was it so difficult for Shepard to accept that she could be a target. More importantly, had she considered, in chasing down the Frog, she was essentially screwing over Kort's whole reason for being? Gibbs stretched his back in irritation. Unless he was up to something. If Kort fed Shepard frog's legs, what would that be worth, to him? What would he claim as payment. Gibbs squinted his eyes shut. He didn't like where his mind was going.
McGee system pinged quietly. He clicked tentatively at a new pop-up.
"Oh."
"What!" Gibbs snapped.
"After the Ares project, I left a watch on the name of Grace O'Malley. The alias The Black Rose used?"
"So?"
"She just booked into a hotel, south side, but there's no record of her entering the country."
Gibbs screwed his eyes almost shut. Shepard had commented on the alias, like she knew the name's complete history. He didn't know it was Shepard for sure, but it felt right. He would surprise her. And then wring her scrawny neck. If Kort was there, so much the better.
McGee's system pinged again. McGee groaned.
"I've got a list of leases as long as my arm. Office space, apartments, hotel suites, you should see some of the stuff on here."
"Ziva," Gibbs called. "Help him. Call me when you've got something." He stooped to pick up his cell from the floor and brushed imaginary dust off it, smirking when the flip top separated from the body of the unit. Breaking something made him feel lighter. The expectation that he might be sneaking up on Shepard made him feel almost pleasurable.
Gibbs sauntered over to Tony's stack of cabinets. From the third drawer down, he pulled out a box and extracted a new handset. He tossed the empty box and the remains of his old handset on McGee's table.
"Where are you going?" McGee asked with a note of uncertainty in his voice. He still didn't want to look into the Boss's eyes. There was an undercurrent in this whole investigation that made him about as uncomfortable as when Colonel Mann and Gibbs had first hit it off. It was like being the third wheel at a dinner party for two.
Gibbs strode out of the bullpen.
"Florist."
Ziva and McGee stared at their Boss's rapidly departing back.
"Transfer my calls," Gibbs called over his shoulder. "Handset's broken."
"I thought he was going to find a Judge," McGee grunted to Ziva, scrolling through the lines of assets and locations, looking for a pattern, or absence of one.
"He left his coffee," Ziva commented. "I think he is not looking for what we are looking for."
A/N: Cobb is a byblow of Operation Frankenstein mentioned later in the NCIS series. Afficionados will know him as the port-to-port killer and also that his handler was Trent Kort.
Grace O'Malley controlled part of the Irish coastline in the time of Elizabeth I. She taxed the shipping using these waters, leading her to be accused of piracy. This will wrap up in 2.