Chapter Fifteen

"McGee …"

A grunt. A thud. A shuffling sound. Then silence.

"Boss?" Nothing. "Gibbs!"

Tim slammed the phone down and shot out of his chair. "He's there." He ran to Gibbs' desk and pulled open the top drawer.

"Ziva!" He threw the keys to her, and he was moving again before she plucked them out of the air. "Get the car. Meet us out front." She ran to follow his orders, and he spun back around. "Abby, tell Ducky and Vance what's going on."

"What is going on?"

"Rivers is at the house with Gibbs and Tony."

The fear and worry on her face registered with him, but he couldn't soothe them. He mad more important things to worry about.

"Timmy, what do I …?"

"I don't have time right now, Abby. I'm sorry. We've gotta go." He turned one last time and ran toward the stairs. "Fornell, with me!"

To his credit, Fornell didn't protest or try to take charge. He followed right on Tim's heels – out of the squad room, through the door, and down the stairs.

"Elevator?"

"No time." There was no time. There was no time for anything. Tony and Gibbs needed them, immediately, and they were at least thirty minutes away. Damn it!

'Slow down, McGee. Think. Don't come charging in unprepared and get us killed.'

"What did you hear?" Fornell was having no trouble keeping up with him. The man didn't even sound winded. It was a sharp contrast to Tim's own frantic breaths and the heart that felt like it was about to explode through his chest. "On the phone?"

Tim shook his head as they hit the bottom of the stairs. "Duncan hung up on me. I called Gibbs. He answered, said my name, and then nothing. It sounded like he fell, or got hit, I don't know. Someone hung up his phone, but it wasn't him." He pulled the door open and stepped through, but he didn't hold it for Fornell. "He's there. He's got them."

"Don't you think that we should …?"

"He is going to kill them."

Fornell huffed in frustration. "What about backup, McGee? Don't you think we need some?"

"Vance'll send every available agent we've got." He knew the director would make sure they had the backup they needed, but Tim had every intention of making certain that they didn't need any. "We don't have time to wait around for them."

This was his team Rivers was screwing with. They were his friends. They were his family.

He was going to stop the bastard himself.

"So what are we doing here?" The question wasn't patronizing, but the tone of voice sure as hell was. Tim felt anger mixing with the fear that coursed through his veins. "Where are we going?"

"Armory."

"Why?" Condescension was replaced by confusion, and Tim understood it. He wasn't entirely sure why they were down there, either. "I have my weapon. You and David have yours."

It wasn't until they were standing in front of the door that he understood exactly what he was doing, and he recognized the voices in his head for what they were.

'That's it, Probie. You've got a plan. Stick to it.'

He opened the door with more certainty and send of purpose than he'd ever felt before.

"We need a bigger one."

'Save our asses.'

His first thought on returning to consciousness was that his head hurt. His second was that his butt was cold. His third was that he couldn't move his arms. His fourth was …

"Tony!"

His eyes shot open just as the soft, pained voice reached his ears.

"Right here, Boss."

Tony's eyes were closed, and his head rested against the inside of his right arm. Blood from the new gash on his eyebrow had dried along the side of his face, and the beginnings of what was sure to be a spectacular bruise showed down the side his left eye and across his cheekbone. His shirt was gone, and the sutured wounds and fading bruises that peppered his chest and arms stood out against his pale skin. His left shoulder, what Gibbs could see of it, was a swollen, deformed, blackened mess. His arms were above his head, his hands tied tightly with a cord that looked like it had been ripped from one of his shop lights. The bandages that had been protecting the damaged skin of his wrists were gone, and the cord had already started digging in. An orange extension cord ran between his hands, around the bindings, and looped over the beam above. But he was on his feet, holding his own weight, and that alone was a vast improvement over the last time he had found him in a similar position.

Gibbs saw it all in seconds, and he knew how screwed they were before his mind was even finished processing it.

"Bastard keeps punching holes in my ceiling."

Tony snorted, and Gibbs nodded in satisfaction. The moan that followed turned that small moment of normalcy into something much more dire.

"I'll fix it for ya." Tony's eyelashes fluttered, but his eyes stayed closed. "Least I can do."

With Tony's condition assessed, Gibbs turned his attention to his own predicament. His head hurt because he'd been smacked in the back of the head with something, most likely Rivers' gun – the same gun that had been used to kill Robert Duncan. His butt was cold because he was sitting on the concrete floor. He couldn't move his arms because they were tied behind him, around the four-by-four post that held his stairs up. His fingers were clumsy and swollen, but they were still sensitive enough to tell the difference between an electrical cord and rope.

That was good. Electrical cord could do a lot of damage, and pulling against it had a tendency to make knots tighter, but it was also slicker than rope. It could be loosened, if you knew what you were doing. He started working at the knot with his fingertips, and he turned the rest of his attention back to Tony.

"What do you know about hanging drywall, DiNozzo?"

"Not a damn thing." Tony shifted his feet an inch or so, and another moan escaped him as even that small movement jarred his shoulder. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at Gibbs without moving his head. "I know I wanted to remember, Boss. But this … is a bit much."

"So, you do?" It was a dumb question, but he wasn't really worried about looking smart. He was worried about keeping Tony talking. "Remember?"

Tony's expression said that not only was it a stupid question, it was just about the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "Oh, yeah."

Lines of pain and exhaustion battled for dominance on Tony's face. Even the slightest movement made him flinch or groan. His chest was rising and falling with each huffed breath, but his breathing, though audible, was shallow. Too shallow.

'He's got to breathe as deeply as he can, and he has to exhale completely. If he doesn't, he is going to get pneumonia.'

"Breathe," he ordered. "In and out."

"Working on it."

His aching fingers refused to respond to any more of his mental commands, so he relaxed them and let what little blood could get into them flow back in. He glanced around the basement, both wondering where Rivers had gotten off to and grateful that he wasn't there. His eyes fell on Tony again, standing next to the hanging light with his eyes closed tightly and his forehead pressed against the inside of his arm.

"You okay, Tony?"

Another dumb question. And one that he didn't expect to be answered. He expected a lie. He expected a deflection. He expected sarcasm. He expected a "Yeah," or a "Sure," or a "Peachy."

He got the truth.

"No."

And it scared the hell out of him.

Ziva opened the door and started to climb out when she saw them approaching, but Tim shook his head at her. "No! You're driving."

She gave his new weapon a curious glance as he climbed into the front seat with her, and then she smiled at him in both understanding and approval. Fornell climbed in behind her.

"What does it matter who dr ...?"

The door slammed shut and Fornell was thrown against the back of the seat when she pushed her foot down on the gas and peeled out of the parking lot.

"Damn it, David!"

"We are in a hurry."

It was the only explanation she was going to offer, and it was more than Tim thought she owed. He turned around slightly in his seat, and he fixed a glare on Fornell. None of it was his fault, and Tim knew it, but he was pissed. He had to take it out on someone, and the FBI agent was available.

"How the hell did that man pass a psych eval?"

Fornell didn't react to the anger at all. He simply shook his head. "Hell if I know." He took a breath and let it out, trying to ignore the way the cars and buildings sped past them as Ziva weaved her way in and out of traffic. "I knew he wasn't the greatest of field agents, but I thought he might grow into it. And I knew he was pissed at Gibbs about his nose and DiNozzo about the locksmith thing, but … I never saw this coming."

"Two days." Tim turned back around in his seat and stared out the windshield. "He was right there. Right in front of us. The whole damned time!"

"Wait." Fornell leaned forward, obviously confused. "He was where?"

"At the hospital." Ziva answered without taking her eyes from the road. "Where you sent him to protect the man he had just tried to kill."

"At the … Where I …?" Fornell looked back and forth between them as he spluttered and stammered. "I didn't put him on protection detail."

"So, you did know something was up with him, then." It was the only conclusion that made any sense to Tim. Protection details were usually easy jobs, and with Gibbs there, it would have been even easier. If Fornell wouldn't have assigned him to it, then …

"There was no protection detail to assign him to, McGee. I didn't assemble one. And even if I had, I wouldn't have sent him."

"Because you doubted his stability?" Ziva asked the question with only the tiniest hint of sarcasm.

"No. Because he lost a witness through a bathroom window and didn't notice he was gone until I called him forty-five minutes later. Because he turned his back on a man who stole his gun and used it to murder someone. Because he's an incompetent idiot who should have never had a badge in the first place. But mainly because he's not an agent anymore."

"What?" Ziva spun her head quickly, and her hands followed suit. She noticed her mistake immediately and steered their car back into the right lane before they hit anyone or anything, but it was enough to drain most of the color from Fornell's face.

Tim didn't even notice.

"Since when?" he demanded.

"Since Friday. When he was fired for being an incompetent idiot." He looked at each of them in turn before he continued. "I told Gibbs."

"Did you?" Time turned in his seat again. "He told me and Tony that you almost got suspended, but he didn't say anything about anyone being fired."

Fornell's face went blank as he thought back over every conversation he'd had with Gibbs over the past few days, obviously trying to remember if he'd actually said what he thought he had.

"Come on, Fornell. Do you really think he'd have let Rivers within a hundred feet of Tony if he'd known that he'd been fired?"

Fornell shook his head slowly. "No. He wouldn't have."

The vibration of the beam at his back told him that someone had just walked onto the landing, and he lifted his head. The steps were even, unhurried, unconcerned. And the son of a bitch was whistling.

"Hello."

He wanted to jump up from the floor and charge him, tackle him to the ground, and beat his face in, but he couldn't. He'd managed to get the first loop of the knot at his wrists undone, but he still had at least five more to go. He settled for narrowing his eyes in hatred.

"Rivers, what the hell are you …?"

Everything about the motion was smooth. The way he reached to the back of his waistband, the way he swung his arm back around, and the way he lifted the gun and aimed it straight at Tony's face.

The message was received. Gibbs swallowed the rest of what he'd been planning to say.

"Hey, DiNozzo."

Tony opened his eyes, just a bit at first, but then wide when he realized that he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Do you recognize this?"

Tony's posture stiffened, and he shot a panicked glance at Gibbs. Yeah, he recognized it. Gibbs didn't, but Tony's reaction told him whose it was.

"Do you?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he straightened up as much as he could and stared directly ahead.

Rivers pressed the gun against Tony's temple and leaned in. "Do you?!"

Tony's flinch was impossible to hide, and his voice wavered slightly when he spoke. "It's mine."

Rivers smiled. "Yeah, it is. Do you know what I've done with it?"

Tony's eyes darted to Gibbs again, and Gibbs nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Killed … someone."

"Two someones, actually." Rivers pulled the gun away and looked down at it. "But it didn't have quite the effect it was supposed to." Neither Tony nor Gibbs spoke, and Rivers continued. "I mean, I got jumped from behind. I got knocked out, someone stole my gun, and he killed a scumbag with it. And do you know what I got?"

Tony shook his head.

"Fired." Rivers turned toward Gibbs. "But you … You get jumped from behind, get knocked out, someone steals your gun and kills a scumbag with it … and you get coddled and sheltered and pampered by your boss here." He cocked his head and turned back around. "What is it about you, DiNozzo? What makes you so special?"

Tony scrunched his forehead in confusion.

'He can't answer that. He doesn't know.'

Gibbs cleared his throat and drew Rivers' attention back to him. Rivers smiled again, a deranged, crooked smile that made every hair on Gibbs' arms and neck stand on end.

"That reminds me." He tucked the gun back into his waistband as he walked around Tony to the rack that Gibbs kept his lumber on. Gibbs watched him warily, and Tony turned his head as far as he could and tried to keep his eyes on him. Rivers spent a few seconds looking through the short pieces of two-by-four and one-by-six before picking one up and tossing it in the air a few times to check the weight. He smiled again. "Do you remember telling me that I shouldn't try to get back at him, DiNozzo?" He clapped Tony on the back as he walked by, knocking him off balance just enough that he had to step forward.

Tony gasped as he pulled himself back up. "Bruce, don't."

"I told you there'd be payback, didn't I?" He kept walking straight toward Gibbs. "You laughed at me."

"Don't!"

Tony's frantic pleading told him that something was coming, and he tried to prepare himself for it. But there was no preparing for the pain that shot through his face when Rivers swung the board squarely into his nose. His eyes watered, and he could feel the warmth of blood gushing down his face almost instantaneously.

"I lost a fight with a door," Rivers said. "And you just lost a fight with a two-by-four." He tapped Gibbs on the end of the nose, sending more pain shooting up the shattered cartilage. "You might wanna ice that."

Then he stood up, tossed the two-by-four aside, and slowly removed his jacket.

"I could have just shot you and been done with it. Maybe I should have. Put a nice hole in your head like the one I gave that stupid Marco. Or maybe shot you in the gut and left you to bleed to death on the ground somewhere, alone. Shooting you with your own gun. There's poetry in that, isn't there?"

He pulled the gun out of his waistband and looked down at it. Then he put it on the sawhorse he was standing next to.

"But then I thought of something better. I thought … I'll shoot you with his gun. That's not just poetic. That's perfect." Gibbs' heart dropped into his shoes as Rivers pulled his weapon out of his pants pocket and turned it back and forth in his hand. "You know, if you'd drawn on me upstairs, if you'd shot me when you had the chance, none of this would be happening right now." He pointed the gun at Tony without looking at him, and Gibbs froze. "Don't you feel stupid?"

"Why?" Tony was hurting, he was scared, and he was tired, but none of those things were evident in his voice. "Just … why?"

"Why?" He spun on Tony, his face suddenly bright red and spluttering in anger. "Why?!" He punctuated the question by pressing the gun so tightly against Tony's chin that he shoved his head back. "Because you ruined my life!"

Tony looked Rivers in the eye, shook his head slowly, and met his anger with calm. "No, Bruce. I didn't."

Rivers dropped the gun to his side and looked down at the ground. Gibbs would have been amazed at the reaction those four simple words had gotten if it were anyone else, but it was Tony. He'd always been an excellent hostage negotiator. One of the best NCIS had. He'd just never had to negotiate for himself before.

"They did this to you." Gibbs felt useless, but he was aware that his usual style would probably do more harm than good, so he kept his mouth shut, his eyes on Tony, and his fingers moving. "You didn't deserve it. Fornell should have had your six, and the director should have seen how valuable you are. You outsmarted NCIS, didn't you? You got me and my car out of the Yard without anyone even knowing I was gone."

Gibbs' gut clenched. Tony smiled at him, a tired but understanding smile that said he didn't believe a word he was saying. Gibbs released the breath he'd been holding and used his shoulder to wipe some of the blood away from his nose.

"You had them chasing Stefano, and he had nothing to do with it. You were at the hospital the entire time, and no one ever suspected you. You're too smart for them to throw away like that over one little mistake. You were probably the smartest person in your class, weren't you?"

Rivers nodded.

"Let me help you, Bruce." Tony's patience and empathy were a thing of beauty, and they were on full display. He was pulling out every trick he knew, and if Gibbs hadn't known better, he'd have believed that Tony sincerely wanted to save the man who'd tortured him and left him for dead. If anyone had asked him, at that moment, why he kept Tony around, the answer would have been simple.

'Because he can do that.'

"What happened with Kale wasn't your fault. You're right. He blindsided you. There was nothing you could have done."

Rivers shook his head slowly. "Nothing."

"So let me help you. Let's fix this. Together."

"How?" Rivers' voice was soft, and he didn't lift his eyes from the floor.

Gibbs felt another loop of the knot slip out beneath his fingers. Four down, two to go.

"Maybe you could have done something on Friday, but now? I've killed two people. I've spent two days trying to kill you. You really think you can help me?" He raised his head as he spoke. Tony opened his mouth, but the look in Rivers' narrowed eyes stopped him from answering.

"You really think I want you to?"

He laughed, a sound so filled with hatred and insanity that it made Gibbs' blood run cold. "You're good. I'll give you that."

Tony completely deflated as Rivers walked back over to the sawhorse, put Gibbs' gun down on it, and started rolling up his sleeves.

"Your little show did have an effect on me, so you should be proud. Because of what you said, I've decided not to shoot you." He reached into the pocket of the jacket he'd draped across the sawhorse. "I think this is a much better way to get my point across."

The light reflected from the blade of the knife that Rivers held in his hand. Every muscle in Tony's body tensed, he swallowed hard, and he stared at Gibbs in wide-eyed horror.

'That's mine. God damn it!'

"You son of a bitch."

He shouldn't have said it, and he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. But Rivers didn't react in anger; he simply smiled and turned away. Gibbs pulled against the cord, even though his rational mind told him it was a bad idea. He had two loops left to work out, and all he was doing was making them tighter.

"No!" He didn't even try to keep the desperation out of his voice. He was beyond caring if Rivers heard it or not. "I'm the one who broke your nose, Rivers. I'm the one who could have talked you up to Fornell. I could have kept you from getting fired. Not him. You want to take it out on someone, take it out on me!"

Tony squeezed his eyes shut, and even from six feet away, Gibbs could see that he was terrified. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. He was pleading, silently, begging … praying. Rivers placed the tip of the blade against the hollow at the base of Tony's throat and dragged it down his chest. He didn't press hard enough to break the skin, but he got the reaction he wanted.

Tony started trembling and gasping as the steel of the blade moved across his skin, and Rivers smiled.

"Now. Where should I start?"

He didn't care what he had to do to get free. He'd cut his own hands off with that damn cord if it would help. He had two loaded weapons within arms reach, and he was going to get to them. He was going to use them.

One way or another.

Bruce Rivers was going to die.