A/N: Super short update, but . . . I'm back. I think. That's the idea, anyway.

#*#*#*#*#

"Financials and phone records come back clean, boss," Kono said, as they stood clustered around the smart table. "No red flags. Graff retired from the Navy with the rank of Lieutenant Commander, impeccable service record, and joined NCIS just three years ago."

"Kinda like your friend Hanna," Danny said.

"Yeah, except I don't think Agent Hanna turned down an offer from the JAG Corp in order to become a cop," Chin said.

"Tells us she was damn good at what she did, and not ready to settle into a desk job. What do we have from the ME report?" Steve asked.

"One item of significance," Chin said. "Special Agent Graff suffered a blunt force trauma to the base of her skull, within hours of her death."

"So, someone took her out with a blow to the head, and staged the body in hopes that it would be assumed she committed suicide," Grover offered. "Thought they could get away with it, maybe?"

Steve folded his arms over his chest and studied the information on the screen.

"Or," Danny said, holding up a finger, "she fell in the shower, didn't realize she'd given herself a concussion, got in her car to go to work, and was more disoriented than she realized. Or passed out just after starting the car, before she opened the garage door."

"Max said that the carbon monoxide poisoning was definitely the COD," Chin said. "So your theory is . . . plausible, I suppose."

"Not so much a theory, really," Danny said, "more of a devil's advocate scenario."

"So you're not buying accidental death or suicide, either," Steve said.

"Not yet," Danny said. "But accidents do happen."

"Sometimes when you hear hoofbeats, it's just horses, not zebras," Grover added.

Steve laughed. "Well, I say we rule out the zebras, just to be sure. The partner, Agent Dillinger, was vague on the details of their current open case. In the absence of any other leads, I say we start there and work our way back."

Kono nodded and sent more images to the plasma. "They were working an internal investigation, a supply of prescription opioids unaccounted for when the U.S.S. Halsey pulled back into Pearl six months ago."

"Now, see, Dillinger didn't mention that," Steve said, pointing at the screen. "I served on the Halsey, caught a ride from Coronado to the Persian Gulf back in 2008."

"How much of a supply are we talking?" Chin asked.

"Hundreds of thousands of dollars in street value," Grover said.

"Motive," Chin said.

"I want everything, absolutely everything," Steve said. "And we're going back to interview Dillinger again."

#*#*#*#*#

NCIS Special Agent Mark Dillinger paced in his tiny studio apartment. He had regretted taking the transfer to Pearl almost from the moment he'd arrived on the island, not that anyone understood. The pay differential should have been enough to allow him a more comfortable standard of living, but of course, the pay differential didn't take into account the cost of his Vicodin habit.

He was screwed, no matter which way he looked at it. He hadn't killed Elizabeth - not that Five-O would believe him. And he hadn't ratted out his supplier - not that he would believe him, either. No, he'd just managed to get himself caught in the middle with absolutely no way out.

He stopped pacing and took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart and shaking hands. Off the island. He had to get off the island, first of all, because it was too damn small and at this point, it was just a question of who would get to him first.

His bug-out bag was in the trunk of his car. He'd grab it, call a taxi, and leave his phone in the trunk of the car. If he was lucky, he could get to the airport.

The banging on his front door told him that his luck had already run out.

#*#*#*#*#

"Yeah, Chin, what have you got?" Danny asked, as Steve drove faster than strictly necessary toward Agent Dillinger's address.

Steve glanced over as Danny thumbed his phone to speaker.

"Guys, HPD was just called to the apartment complex where you're headed, with a report of suspicious activity," Chin said. "Someone called in shouting, sounds of an altercation . . . could be coincidence, but . . . "

"Yeah, because anytime there's violence in our vicinity, that's coincidental," Danny said. His hand gripped the door handle as Steve accelerated even more. "Can we assume that HPD is on the way, at least?"

"They are, and so are we," Chin said. "Kono's driving."

"Oh, goody, she's even crazier than Steve, you might beat us there," Danny said.

Within moments, Steve was angling the Camaro into the cracked and unkempt parking lot.

"It doesn't look any more promising today," Danny grumbled.

"It reminds me of your first dump," Steve said, as he climbed out of the car. His hand went to his sidearm immediately. "Danny, Dillinger's door is open."

Steve started to take off toward the building.

"Steven, vest," Danny hissed at him. He was pulling his own vest on over his head with one hand, and tossing Steve's at him with the other. Steve caught it one-handed and struggled into it as he walked across the parking lot.

"No cover, no sense of self-preservation, the big idiot," Danny muttered under his breath. He slapped down the last of the velcro and caught up to Steve.

They both drew their weapons and quietly ascended the staircase leading to the narrow landing outside the second story apartments. They could hear the sound of flesh striking flesh from the open door. Danny held his badge up in view of a neighbor anxiously peeking out of her blinds.

"She's probably the one who called it in," Steve murmured. "Glad she had sense to stay inside. Come on."

"Okay, but only because HPD is already en route," Danny whispered back. "You're waiting for back-up now, remember?"

"Aww, Danny, but you're my favorite back-up," Steve said, grinning. "On three?"

Danny nodded grimly, gripping his weapon firmly and crouching, training his focus on whatever might wait for them behind the door. They could hear shouting, now.

"You're a filthy cop," a voice said, followed by the dull thud. "Who else is undercover? Give us names."

Steve counted down three fingers and then kicked the door the rest of the way open.

"Five-O!" he shouted, as the door crashed against the wall and bounced back. Three shots rang out, and Steve returned fire reflexively, instinct and training and muscle memory taking over.

Agent Dillinger was in a chair in the center of the room, blood pouring freely from his mouth and nose. Two bodies were on the floor on either side of him, their firearms still in their hands. Steve winced, preparing for a thorough tongue-lashing from Danny on paperwork and protocol.

In fact, Danny was quiet.

Too quiet.