DiNozzo and Ziva escorted Petty Officer Mathis out to their sedan. DiNozzo pulled the keys out of his pocket, unlocking the doors. "The motel is about five miles up the road in the opposite direction," he mentioned. "Like Gibbs said, we can't let you get cleaned up in the house; it's still a crime scene, and we might lose some pieces of evidence down the drain. You want to pick up your clothes first, or get cleaned up first?"
Mathis looked at herself, trying unsuccessfully not to look at the blood of her friend that still stained her filthy clothing. She peered about, bewildered at her sudden change in status, and DiNozzo felt that same little twist of annoyance that his boss had. This woman, this soldier, has been mis-treated, and deserved better. She would be getting it, DiNozzo promised himself. Mathis looked around once again, as if hoping to see the local motel within eyeshot. "I need clothes."
"The house it is, then." DiNozzo opened the door for her, handing her gently inside, attempting to exchange a glance with Ziva.
Ziva's attention was elsewhere: across the dusty street. "Tony. That silver SUV over there."
"What SUV? That one?"
"It looks familiar." The SUV in question was parked across the street in front of the merchandise shop, trying to blend in with the four other vehicles waiting there for their owners to finish shopping.
"Check it out," DiNozzo ordered, knowing that the Israeli officer would do that no matter he thought. There were only several thousand silver SUV's in this state alone, let alone across the country. However, he had relied on her gut instincts more than once, and was fully prepared to do so again. "Mathis, you stay here. Don't move from here."
"Yes, sir." Mathis was unarmed.
Ziva crossed the wide and dusty street, heading straight for the target vehicle. DiNozzo scanned the area, looking for anyone who might look like Arabic-speaking carjackers. The area was empty of pedestrians, only a mother with a toddler getting into a mini-van and strapping the child into an approved safety seat in the back, the mini-van parked well away from the SUV. The mother had likely been picking up a dose of caffeine, DiNozzo decided idly. She'd parked in front of the produce store that also sold some damn good coffee. DiNozzo had tried it, last night. It was one of the few good things that Fielding had told them. He trotted after his partner to check out the SUV, backing her up.
The produce store was also where McGee was getting coffee from, Dennis the fellow computer menace emerging behind the NCIS agent carrying his half of the cups. DiNozzo's mouth watered at the thought of that coffee, deciding on the spot to grab three for the trip to where ever Mathis wanted to go to first. The petty officer deserved it, after all she'd been through. And Gibbs had ordered it for her, after all.
McGee spotted them, deduced that at least one part of the case had come to a successful conclusion. "Hey, Tony! I—"
Ziva gestured to DiNozzo. "The license plate. It looks like—"
It happened in slow motion. Two of the carjackers were hiding around the corner of the produce store, waiting for the right moment. They emerged from behind the corner, intent on their prey, carrying heavy tire irons.
The first one went straight for McGee.
"McGee!" DiNozzo yelled.
Not fast enough. McGee caught just enough of a glimpse to throw up his shoulder to take the blow on his arm instead of his head. Coffee went flying into the air.
The steaming hot coffee caught the carjacker in the face. He screamed, and clawed at the sudden scalding, but he never dropped the tire iron in his hand. He valiently attacked again.
McGee was ready, and proved that he really was a trained NCIS agent. Another block, a return blow to the rib cage. The carjacker staggered back.
Dennis was the surprise. After diverting the first attack, he dropped to the ground and swept the other carjacker's legs out from underneath him. From across the street, running to help, DiNozzo was impressed. Dennis had clearly had some training somewhere, and it wasn't in this little town.
The carjackers knew when they'd had enough, knew when the NCIS reinforcements were coming to the aid of McGee and Dennis. DiNozzo heard the roar of a car engine behind him. He turned, gun in hand, to see the silver SUV tear out of its parking space. The third guy must have been hiding in the driver's seat.
The SUV slammed into a skidding turn, twisted into position, and raced toward the altercation. Ziva dove out of the way, just in time to keep from being run down. She fired a shot; it missed by a hair.
DiNozzo too fired, aiming for the tires. Hit! The tire blew, and the SUV slung around before righting itself, rocking back and forth. It blocked the sight of McGee and Dennis. DiNozzo and Ziva ran forward, racing to close the distance.
The driver of the SUV scuttled out through the passenger's door, away from DiNozzo and Ziva. DiNozzo heard a scream, a female one, and his gut clenched. The woman and her kid! A sudden burst of engine noise confirmed his worst fear: the driver had just taken control of the mini-van, using it as a getaway vehicle.
What the hell was going on? He needed to see past the SUV. DiNozzo altered his direction to move past the now dead enemy SUV.
Wham! The mini-van banged into the SUV, causing the SUV to roll over. DiNozzo dashed back, trying to avoid getting pinned, he could get around it, just a little bit faster—
Bam! The SUV caught him against the hip, throwing him to the ground. Fireworks flared in sudden agony, daring him to try to move, to escape. "Ziva!" he yelled.
"Tony!" The Mossad agent changed direction, heading toward him.
DiNozzo waved her off. "Get them!" he yelled, hoping that his order sounded more like a senior NCIS agent and not a scared Starksville chief of police. That would be too embarrassing…
Ziva understood. She changed direction yet again, darting for the sedan, grabbing the keys in mid-air that DiNozzo tossed at her from his spot pinned to the pavement. Mathis jumped out of her way and out of the rental sedan, correctly figuring that an unarmed petty officer wouldn't be of any use in a high speed car chase. Ziva took off after the mini-van, DiNozzo listening to the screams of the mother inside the van with the wails of the toddler as an accompaniment.
"Tony!" McGee appeared from around the front of the SUV. "Tony!" He swiftly turned back. "Dennis, help me get this off of him!"
"Right here."
"McGee, get after them!" DiNozzo gasped. "Help Ziva!"
"Gibbs is on it." McGee went calm. "Don't try to move."
Like I could. Out of the corner of his eye, DiNozzo saw Gibbs come flying out of the 'government building', legs pumping. Fielding and the older guy were right after him, neither one keeping up with the NCIS team leader. Gibbs dove through the window into the back seat of the rental sedan, Ziva using the door toggles to open the window for him before wrenching the car around to take off in pursuit of the mini-van.
"Stay still, Tony," McGee ordered. He raised his voice. "Fielding! Figgerworth! Over here, now!"
Didn't know you could be so forceful, McGee. I may have to up the percentage of practical jokes I aim at you. "Watch it, Probie!" It was either that, or groan. DiNozzo elected to curse, instead. "Dammit, McGee, that's my leg!"
"I know it is, Tony." I hate it when McGee tries to sound soothing. "Let's roll this SUV back onto its wheels. On the count of three: one, two—"
'Three' got lost in the grunting of the four men, hauling at the SUV until it was back on four wheels. The SUV rocked back and forth on shock absorbers, settling onto the ground. The front window showed a wide star of cracked glass and a hole where Ziva's bullet had gone through. Jasper stared inside. "No blood. She missed."
"She's…gonna be…pissed," DiNozzo groaned, clutching at his leg.
McGee dropped to the ground beside him. "Are you okay, Tony?"
"Yes, McGee, I'm just peachy," DiNozzo growled. Growling sounded so much better than a whimper and a groan. "Boston Marathon's next week, right?"
"Help him up," McGee directed. "We ought to get it x-rayed." He stared off down the street. "Let's get him inside," he decided. "Where's the nearest medical facility?"
"Sixty miles away, Agent McGee."
DiNozzo felt like cursing again. Sixty miles away to the nearest medical facility meant sixty miles away from the nearest pain-killers. He made another decision. "It can wait," he lied. "McGee, get on the horn. See where Gibbs and Ziva are. Get after them. Those bozos have hostages; a woman and her kid."
"Norma Jean and her little 'un." Fielding just realized that it wasn't only the mini-van that the carjackers had taken, and paled. "Jimmy-Bob's gonna go postal when he hears about this!"
Gibbs scrambled to right himself in the hurtling sedan, taking note of the small verbalizations that the Mossad officer was uttering, certain that those words wouldn't appear in any reputable language textbook. The car took a sharp right, and Gibbs fell over again, grabbing onto the headrest of the front passenger's side in order to pull himself upright. Ought to be wearing a seatbelt, he thought as Ziva tried to throw him back to the floor of the car again with another sharp turn. It'll be a toss up as to who will kill me first—the carjackers with a couple of automatics or Ziva's driving.
"We gaining on them!" Ziva called out.
Good. I'd hate to be going through all of this for nothing. "They're going to roll that damn thing," Gibbs shouted back. "Push 'em hard enough, they'll roll and we'll get 'em."
"They have hostages, Gibbs," Ziva told him. She kept her eyes on the target vehicle ahead.
"Hostages? When did they get those?"
"The driver of the van and her child. They are still in the van."
Gibbs swore. "Ease up, Ziva. I'll call for some road blocks, from the state troopers. We'll get 'em that way."
"Gibbs, watch out!" Ziva shrieked. She hauled on the wheel, stomping on the brakes. The sedan slewed around, slamming into a large oak on the side of the road and slamming Gibbs into a combination of the back of the front seats and the ceiling. His head whacked against the dome light, and he saw light. Not light from the dome light. This light was entirely self-generated. Once again, seat belts would have been useful.
Ziva had done the right thing. In the nano-second before disaster struck, Gibbs saw what Ziva had seen: the carjackers had flung open the rear window and tossed out the mother and child, the toddler still in its car seat. The two had landed in the middle of the road. If Ziva hadn't reacted as quickly as she did, there would be two flattened and dead hostages to explain.
There still might be a board of inquiry. Mom wasn't moving. The kid, fortunately, was squalling loudly and in terror, arms waving, trapped in the contrivance that had probably saved her life—yes, it was a her. Even these days, not too many mothers dressed their sons in that particular shade of pink.
Gibbs tried to jump out of the sedan—tried, and failed. The back door wouldn't open. He tried to ram his shoulder into it, to force it open—and roared as loudly as the fleeing mini-van as a shaft of fire pierced through the shoulder bone. Damn. Better not be broken. "Ziva!"
Damn.
Gibbs crawled to the other side of the sedan, desperately hoping that it would open. He did not look forward to calling for help from this particular set of locals.
They were a sorry-looking bunch, Gibbs decided bitterly.
Ziva: concussion, and a temper to go along with it.
McGee: a black eye. Probably the luckiest of the bunch.
DiNozzo: sub-dermal hematoma where the SUV had rolled onto his hip. Gibbs called it a bruise with an attitude. The docs gave DiNozzo a set of crutches and told him to stay off of it for a few days.
Gibbs himself boasted a sling for a wrenched shoulder. Fortunately it was his left, so he could still whack whichever agent needed whacking with his right.
They were still lucky. The toddler that Ziva had missed had been shaken up but given a clean bill of health. Her mother wasn't so lucky with a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs but Gibbs still considered that fortunate. The pair could have been dead.
Not one of the four suggested that the team put their tail between their collective legs and go home. Not one of them dared complain that ibuprofen wasn't enough to cause the various aches and pains to be bearable, because the heavy duty stuff prescribed by the emergency room nurse practitioner sixty miles away was going to be used only prior to sleep and not earlier since it would have the tendency to interfere with clear thought processes. That would have been an easy way to cause Gibbs's own temper to explode, and take some undeserving agents with it.
Gibbs was pissed. There was no doubt about it. All three agents could see it in every aching line of their boss's body. They had put the initial case to bed—Ducky had done that, actually, by ruling it a death due to natural causes—but this new problem refused to lie down and go away. Instead, it reared up and whacked them 'upside the head' as harshly as anything Gibbs had ever doled out.
At least now they had more to work with.
"McGee." No doubt about it: it was a snarl.
"Boss." McGee tried to look alert.
"Trace the license plate to that SUV. I want to know who it belongs to."
"On it." McGee debated whether or not he should bring up how long it would take without a direct NCIS-approved connection, and chose not to. There were some things better left unsaid, such as, 'which SUV, boss?'.
"I'll help," Dennis chirped from his seat in the corner. Chief Fielding beamed at him. Cooperation with the visiting talent. Lovely.
Gibbs glowered. "Just don't get in his way."
"Not a problem, boss." McGee wasn't about to turn down a free pair of hands to do the gopher work.
"DiNozzo. David. We're going over those bastards' SUV. I want every stray hair and skin cell bagged and tagged to go to Abby."
"Right, boss." Neither DiNozzo nor Ziva dared point out that working in the dark of night would make the task three times harder. Eight o'clock in the evening was when they had returned from medical services after cleaning up from the attack, and eight o'clock was when they could get back to working on the case, and eight o'clock was when they were going to do it.
Gibbs understood the difficulties of the task he had set. "Chief, you got any strobes you can spare?"
"Two. We borrow 'em from the kids' football stadium." As if Fielding wasn't that far removed from his own high school football days.
"We're gonna borrow 'em," Gibbs verified. "Set up a big pot of coffee, chief. It's gonna be a long night."
"Your boss didn't seem as though he'd approve of this," Dennis commented, looking over McGee's shoulder.
"Gibbs doesn't have much understanding about technological systems," McGee replied, "and what I'm doing really will be faster than trying to link my laptop into the landline. There isn't enough signal up here in these mountains to try to pull it through WiFi, and to negotiate the protocols to access the national DMV database would take far too long. No, the most sensible plan is to get your own system up and running, because as a local police department you already are entitled to access to that database. You've just never taken advantage of it before." Which wasn't strictly accurate, but McGee had another plan. By having two computers ready for use—and McGee could see that this was going to turn into one of those cases—he could put Dennis to work on one while McGee used his own laptop. Twice the computer power, twice the speed—or so he hoped.
"We're going to be able to look up every license plate we see?"
"And partials," McGee confirmed. "We find it very valuable in our line of work. I don't think you will, but this will open up other databases that will help you to be more effective. Missing persons, for example. Someone new comes into town, and you can run their likeness through the Missing Persons d-base, find out if they're wanted in any other state. Think that might be useful?"
"Absolutely," Dennis agreed, putting his hand on McGee's shoulder—and very close to Tim's neck.
McGee tried not to shudder, and leaned forward to dislodge the overly familiar hand. "There," he said, turning around in order to remove the hand entirely. Facing Dennis would do that, and put the man at a safe distance. "Now all we have to do is wait for the answer." He watched the screen on the new computer desktop system that he'd finished setting up, sending Dennis for various parts and the occasional flashlight so that McGee could peer inside the box and make certain of what he had his hands on. The wiring McGee had always found tedious, so he delegated much of that to Dennis who apparently loved it. The configuring was McGee's baby, and he was pleased to find that he'd actually improved the speed of the low end computer with his tinkering.
The screen flashed through the DMV records, searching for a match to the SUV that was set up under the lights outside. McGee leaned back in his chair, feeling rather than seeing Dennis do the same in the chair several feet behind him, watching the computer screen over McGee's shoulder. Three people were crawling around the suspects' SUV, and McGee was well satisfied not to be one of them. This chair that he was sitting in wasn't the most comfortable, but it was a chair and it meant that McGee didn't have to crawl on aching hands and knees with the rest of them, listening to Gibbs grumble. That was good enough.
He recalled the stray data-stick that he'd found earlier today, much earlier as he recalled. He eyed the flashing computer screen as it searched the large database, and decided that it was time to put his own laptop to use. He couldn't access the internet at the moment—the signal wasn't strong enough, and McGee didn't want to try chancing a second dial-up connection—but using the time to figure out what was on the data-stick was a good idea.
It took more than a moment or two for the laptop to finish loading itself, and that was more than enough time for Dennis to inch himself closer to McGee yet again. McGee could feel the man's hot breath on his neck. He decided to do something about it. "Dennis," he asked, "let me give you a few bucks. Can you get us some coffee? I have a feeling that this is going to take a while. Get enough for everyone, all the guys outside. Just save a cup for me, when you get back. This is going to take a while," he repeated. In fact, McGee hoped that the new system would have completed its task by the time Dennis returned, but even if it didn't he'd still have distracted Dennis and gotten him out of his hair for a few minutes. If he was lucky, Dennis would stay to watch the fun at the SUV and take more time.
"Sure. Not a problem, Tim. I'll be right back."
"Take your time," McGee called after him, stuffing the data-stick into a spare USB port of the laptop.
In mere moments McGee was lost among the electrons. There was only one file listed on the stick, and it was protected by some sort of pass code. McGee grinned; better and better. He didn't get enough chances to do this sort of thing since he'd graduated from MIT. Gibbs mostly had him doing various searches for data and the occasional hacking into a fellow department's d-base which, while challenging in its own right, still left McGee not using some very high tech skills that he'd learned.
Big file. Had to have some sort of graphics associated with it; that was the only sort of file that would be this big on a stick. Well, maybe there could simply be a really large amount of data, but somehow McGee didn't think so. It acted like a graphic, which wasn't realistic because data was data—completely inanimate and soulless—and that was what the world thought but McGee and his fellow IT geeks knew better. Data was alive, and ornery, and it acted exactly as if it had a mind of its own.
The file opened up. McGee didn't know whether to be pleased with his own cleverness or disappointed that the pass code hadn't been more of a challenge—until he saw the contents of the file.
It started out with a head shot of a man wearing a turban. As the picture downloaded onto the screen, McGee saw brown and piercing eyes followed by an aquiline nose and a thin-lipped mouth. There was a scar along one cheek, noticeable only in a three-quarters view that this picture was and obvious where it interfered with the graying beard that cascaded down beneath the bottom of the portrait. Underneath the picture was a string of what McGee strongly suspected was Arabic.
He stared at the picture, trying to think of who it might be. It wasn't bin Laden, and it wasn't any of the other Middle Eastern terrorists on NCIS watch lists, of that he was certain. Who could it be? And, in an equally as puzzling question, how did this data-stick get into his things? Because Timothy McGee was certain that this stick wasn't his.
He sat back in his chair, flabbergasted. The motive for the carjackers was suddenly clear: they had known that the data-stick was headed south with McGee's laptop from the Philadelphia seminar, and had followed. It was why they'd tried to grab the rental sedan, hoping that McGee's laptop was inside. They'd probably been hoping to find it in McGee's pocket when they'd ambushed Dennis and he outside of the produce shop getting coffee earlier today.
McGee looked again at the Arabic writing, wondering what it said. Ziva would know; she was fluent in Arabic, and if it happened not to be Arabic, she'd know that, too. At any rate, this was an important step forward in the fight against terrorism, and Gibbs needed to know about it sooner rather than later. McGee picked up his cell, hoping that the signal would get through to the parking lot outside where the other three were still processing the abandoned SUV.
The desk-top pinged: the license plate to the SUV had come through.
No doubt about it. McGee needed to talk to Gibbs.
Gibbs eased back on his haunches, trying to stretch weary and sore muscles, pulling his arm out of its sling in order to stretch those muscles as well. It had been a long day, and it wasn't quite finished.
Hell of a day. The sole good thing about it, he mused as he watched his people continue to struggle to complete their tasks, was that they'd cleared Petty Officer Mathis and sent her on her way. Other than that, the whole twenty-four hours was pretty much a bust. A 'bust' in more ways than one, his aching shoulder reminded him. He should tell his people to stop working, to get a good night's rest, finish up in the morning—but he couldn't. One look at the sky told him that. Clouds were rolling in with a vengeance, and a thunderstorm would be happening before sun up. The rain would wash away any remaining clues as to why those carjackers were so intent on pestering this little town and its 'tourists'.
If this were D.C., he'd have this vehicle towed to the Forensics' garage, and they could strip it down at their leisure. No such luck here in Starksville; the best that they'd be able to do would be to cover the thing over with tarps and tie-downs, and at the first drops of rain that was what Gibbs intended to do.
What were those carjackers after? It didn't make sense. They had been through the rental sedan: nothing. Were they after Ziva, as terrorists after a Mossad officer? Possible, but unlikely. There were easier targets, with higher publicity value. Was there someone hiding in Starksville that they wanted to eliminate? That had a higher probability, and Gibbs resolved to explore the matter. In the meantime, there was the SUV that the car-jackers had left behind, and NCIS was going to search it until it yielded up some sort of hint as to what the hell was going on.
Maybe not tonight. He ought to tell them to stop. Gibbs himself was too tired to think straight, and he'd blow past a clue even if it was sending up fireworks. His people were the same: tired and sore and more than ready for some of those prescription pain-killers in little vials with their names on them. They were good agents—not that he'd ever tell them that. Swelled heads also got in the way of clear thinking.
Gibbs watched one of the locals—Dennis, his name was—amble out of the produce shop with a large container of java and several cups. Gibbs grinned, instantly recognizing the ploy. Gibbs hadn't missed the interplay of emotions on the part of the local cop, and hadn't missed any of the cues that the man had been sending out toward McGee. McGee, the softy, hadn't yet been able to tell Dennis to lay off. This was just McGee's way of getting Dennis out of his hair, sucking up to Gibbs himself with a hot cup of joe, and making Dennis feel useful.
Gibbs looked up at the sky once more. The clouds had covered over the stars and the sky was pitch black. If it weren't for the stadium lights that Fielding had dragged in, they wouldn't have been able to work at all. Flashlights could only go just so far. He inhaled, tasting the air. Yeah, it wouldn't be much more than an hour, and the rain would hit. He could already hear the thunder crashing up in the mountains to the west, and it promised to be a big one. He sighed; so much for getting out of town before the weather. He reached for the cup of steaming hot liquid that Dennis gave him. "Thanks."
DiNozzo crawled out from the stowage end of the SUV, accepting his own cup gratefully. "Thanks. What do I owe you?"
"Not a thing," Dennis assured him. "I got it covered."
Gibbs didn't raise his eyebrows, wondering if he'd read the situation wrong, if McGee hadn't been behind the coffee run. Gibbs would see how this played out.
DiNozzo inhaled his first swig gratefully, resting his weight on one leg, leaning back against the comforting bulk of the SUV. "I needed this."
Ziva slid out from underneath the undercarriage and spotted what was going on—or, more likely, smelled the heavenly aroma. "Tony, you got coffee and you didn't get me any?"
"No, ma'am," Dennis said, still eyeing how DiNozzo's trousers fit over slim hips. "There's some for you, too." He wrenched his gaze away in order to fill another cup and hand it over, moving on to offer the same to Chief Fielding and Jasper Figgerworth.
A police cruiser rumbled into the main lot, pulling into the slot beside the rental sedan, and the fourth member of the Starksville police force emerged. Her blonde hair swung in a ponytail, the small plastic pseudo-crystal of her hair band glittering in the light from the stadium brights, and the rest of her dark uniform tended to make her stand out with a shadow in bold relief. She walked over to the group, surveying the SUV with distaste. "You getting anywhere?"
Gibbs declined to answer. "You?"
Gloria Standish—the name badge plain on her blouse—shook her head. "I talked to Norma Jean right after surgery. Jimmy-Bob took little Heather home with him, and for a change he didn't cause a ruckus," she added in an aside to Jasper. It was plain to everyone there who was considered the 'chief of police' and it wasn't the one wearing the title. "The docs say that Norma Jean can come home in a day or so. Ms. Hawkins has volunteered to watch Heather during the day while Jimmy-Bob works."
"What did the lady say about the carjackers?" DiNozzo pushed in.
Gloria favored him with a slow look up and down, not missing the various cuts and bruises—or the slim hips that Dennis had also just undressed with his eyes. There was a lot of that going on, Gibbs decided sourly. Yet another reason to finish up this case and get the hell out of Starksville.
"Not much," Gloria finally admitted. "She was pretty out of it from the anesthesia, so I'll head back tomorrow and see if I can get anything more from her. She said she was too scared to really look at them."
Which only made sense. Average people didn't expect to get kidnapped from a parking lot in front of a produce store in the middle of town. Expecting the woman to make detailed mental notes of her assailants was beyond reasonable. It wasn't going to happen.
Gibbs's cell phone rang, and he glanced at the screen: McGee. Gibbs frowned; cell service up here was so poor that he'd almost forgotten that he carried the damn thing and was grateful to have forgotten. Gibbs was amazed that the call went through. Couldn't McGee have gotten up from his comfortable chair and walked outside to talk to Gibbs in person? "Gibbs."
McGee had that note in his voice that said that he thought that he had something really important to share with his team leader. It said that he wasn't completely certain that Gibbs would agree or thought that perhaps Gibbs had already found out the same piece of important information some five minutes previously, but that the item was important enough that McGee had to take the risk. Late data had happened before, and McGee had gotten Gibbs's hand upside the head for it.
Well, Gibbs' hand wasn't long enough to reach inside the police station, even though he could see the lights on in the room where McGee had set up housekeeping with Dennis. "What have you got, McGee? The plates come through?"
"Yes, boss. The SUV was stolen, from a couple in Parkersburg. They reported it yesterday, according to the Parkersburg police report. It was taken from their driveway. I notified the police department there that it was used in a crime, and that Mr. and Mrs. Stackhouse wouldn't be getting it back for another few days."
"And for this you couldn't get up off of your duff and walk out to tell me?"
"No, boss. I mean, yes, boss, I could, but there's something else."
"Spit it out, McGee. It's late and I'm not in the mood for spending any more time out here than I have to."
"Yes, boss. Boss, I found this data-stick in my bag—"
"Cut to the chase, McGee."
Deep breath. Gibbs could practically see it from the junior agent through the window into the police station. "Boss, I've got a picture on my laptop of someone that may be an al-Qaida operative."
"What?" Of all the things he'd expected McGee to say, this was not one of them. Swift piercing thoughts flew through Gibbs' mind. "I take it back, McGee. Start from the beginning. No, never mind; I'm coming inside." He closed up the cell and turned to the others. "McGee's got something. Throw the tarps over the SUV, and let's head in."
"Finally," DiNozzo couldn't help but groan. "McGee, I love you."
Dennis's eyes narrowed.
"What's that?" Ziva's sharp gaze picked out a pair of headlights heading toward them at top speed, directing their attention elsewhere.
Dennis scoffed. "Probably one of the Wilkins kids, from over the county line. They like racing that hopped up Mustang of theirs through town, terrorizing everyone."
"You can't stop 'em?" DiNozzo found that hard to believe.
"They cover over their plates," Fielding explained grimly. "They wear clown wigs, and they get their friends to swear that they were at some party all night. We've asked the state troopers to keep an eye out for them, but they're stretched as thin as we are."
"I keep suggesting that we throw down some tire busters," Gloria said, pointedly looking at Jasper, "but nobody so far has said yes."
"You think you can pick 'em all up before daybreak, missy, so's nobody proper gonna git their own tires blowed out, then you're welcome to try. Just don't expect these old bones to help."
DiNozzo picked up one of the tarps, stifling a groan. "Let's get this over with." So I can go inside and collapse, was the unspoken part. He couldn't do anything about the speeding vehicle, but he could get this part of his job done; the sooner, the better.
The engine grew louder, and a vehicle speeding along became a dark blur in the night. A single light separated itself into two distinct headlights. Gary Fielding scowled.
"That's them," Gloria said scornfully. She cast a grim look at Jasper. "I could shoot out a tire."
"Maybe you could, and maybe you couldn't, missy. Ever think of what might happen if you did? Might maybe roll that Mustang into another car. Maybe into one of us standing here. Not worth a simple traffic bust, little lady."
Ziva continued to watch the oncoming vehicle, pausing in her effort to help DiNozzo with the tarp. "Gibbs, I don't think that's a Mustang. It looks bigger—"
Gibbs saw it, too. "That's not a Mustang," he said, growing alarmed. "That's a mini-van—take cover!" he yelled. "That's the mini-van that got stolen—" He dove behind the SUV, injured shoulder forgotten in his haste, taking the nearest person—Dennis—down with him to cover.
A spray of automatic bullets peppered the ground in front of them.
"It's them!" Ziva screeched, as if they needed the identification. She shot back, her own Beretta puny against their automatics, and dodged back behind the other end of the SUV when it was answered by another hail of bullets.
"Aim for the tires!" Gibbs hollered, suiting action to his own words. He put a single bullet into one of the back tires. The tire popped and the vehicle slewed around.
It didn't stop. Ruining a tire beyond repair wasn't worrying the group in the stolen mini-van one bit. The driver poured on the gas, slowing only as it came between the police station and the group huddled behind the covering SUV. The back window of the mini-van scrolled down. An arm flung something out at them, something small and round—and deadly.
Gibbs recognized it immediately. "Grenade!" He flung himself down onto the ground once more, covering his head, seeing the others do the same out of the corners of his eyes.
Bam! The world exploded around him. Gibbs felt pieces of shrapnel cascade onto his head and back, feeling the shards burn into the skin on his hands, hoped that his jacket would do enough to protect him. Hoped the others were safe. The silver SUV was a total loss. Guess what, DiNozzo? No more searching the thing. Good for you.
Had to move fast. Gibbs rolled over, gun in hand, saw bodies on the ground, some of them moving and some not. Another shot at the tires to the mini-van—missed, dammit! His ears buzzed, no sound able to get in past the shock. The mini-van headed toward the police station tacked onto the all-round government building.
Bam! Another explosion: another grenade. Gibbs didn't hear it—he felt it. The mini-van raced off as fast as it could limp with a wounded tire, heading into the night, its deadly work done.
The noise had been another grenade, this one tossed out through the opposite window of the mini-van. This one had been tossed through the window into the police station. This one had been thrown into the room where McGee was working, where he'd just reported finding a computer file with a terrorist on it in living color.
This grenade had just blown out the police station, with McGee in it.
Flames licked out of the window, consuming everything inside.